


Four Times Peter Found His Team and One Time They Found Him

by rohanrider3



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Drax, BAMF Gamora, BAMF Kraglin, BAMF Mantis, BAMF Nebula, BAMF Peter Quill, BAMF Rocket, BAMF Yondu Udonta, Big Damn Heroes, Canon Divergence, Crew as Family, De-Aged, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Grew faster than the Expansion, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 AU? Again?, Guardians of the galaxy as family, Hurt/Comfort, No Sex, No Smut, Papa Bear Yondu, Peter Quill whumpage, Space family, Team Feels, Team as Family, ravagers as family, sister feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohanrider3/pseuds/rohanrider3
Summary: Set after the events of "Peter Quill's (Mostly) Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day", so still in that AU I guess (Mantis is still young in this 'universe', about 13 or so).\Love you, readers! <3 <3





	1. Rocket

Rocket wasn’t _scared_.

Rocket was _terrified_ out of his _mind_.

Usually, he wasn’t.

Okay, well, that wasn’t strictly true.

He was scared, a lot of the time. But he’d found a way to cope, just like the rest of his team. Groot, and now Mantis, too, they tried helping whoever they could. Gamorra clicked into ass-kicking mode, Drax looked around for something to bash, and Quill—Quill just shot off his mouth with whatever smart-alec comment came ready to hand.

With the tiny part of his mind that wasn’t howling in mindless panic, Rocket sincerely doubted if even Star-Brain could have found something funny to say in this situation.

Since, you know.

They’d finally found him.

The ones who’d torn Rocket apart again and again and again.

The ones who’d treated him as a _thing_ , instead of a being, and who hadn’t cared what they did or how they did it, so long as it got them what they wanted, they’d said it was all _for science_ , like _that_ meant they could just rip him to pieces and stitch him back together and then come back the next day and do it _again_.

They’d found him, and they’d taken him away from his teammat—his _family_ , and this was all his fault, he shouldn’tve got all pissed at Quill cuz Star-Brains hadn’t let him steal some stupid batteries, and he’d shouldn’t have stormed away from the Milano once they’d landed on Xandar, he shouldnt’ve yelled he wasn’t comin back—

—but he had, and come on, who’dve thought that the evil crazy scientists would have a lab on _Xandar_ —

—on Knowhere, maybe, but freaking Xandar? Xandar was supposed to be the rigidly straight-laced world where the Nova Corps shut _down_ creeps like these—

—the evil crazy scientists weren’t supposed to be _here_ —

—ohgodsbuthey _were_ —

—and they’d grabbed him when nobody’d been looking and they’d pumped him full of paralyzin drugs and they’d smashed his comms and taken him away and now they were gonna—

—gonna—

_—nononononono—_

—cuffs, operating table, bright lights, sharp instruments on the counter just far enough away for him not to be able to see what they were gonna do—

_—nonnononono **no** —_

—no one was comin to get him, nobody knew he’d been taken, they’d never look for him and they’d never find him even if they did—

—Rocket felt his heart curl up into a cold little ball at that thought—

—he was alone, _alone, **alone**_ , **again** —

—and then—

—then masked figures moving above him, blocking out the light, saying something about starting—

—somethin electric snapping on, whatever it was whirring and spinning right above Rocket’s right ear—

_**—nooo—** _

Rocket tried getting free, again, tried screaming or biting their fingers or clawing their eyes, but they’d put some kind of mask over his face and strapped him down to the operating table, and his muscles wouldn’t work—wouldn’t move when he told them to—

_**—no, no, no, please, no—** _

The whirring sound inched closer to his ear. Rocket felt tears welling up in his eyes and gulped, once, hard. A gloved hand reached out and pulled at one of his eyelids interestedly. Rocket shivered at the touch.

“Subject is showing signs of distress.” The masked figure above him noted, voice faintly muffled behind its mask. It turned its head slightly. “Geren, make a note of that. We can learn more about its tear ducts in a later proced—“

Almost mercifully, the agonizing terror looming over Rocket’s mind seemed to peak, then. It crashed down and enveloped him, and all the sights and sounds surrounding him became thick and muffled, as if everything had been wrapped in thick blankets.

Mmm.

Thick blankets.

They had thick blankets back on the _Milano_.

They used them when they were cold. Quill’d dragged a bunch of ‘em out once when they’d taken that ranching job back on that deserted moon, and they’d had a campfire and eaten...shmoes? whatever, they’d been nice—and then they’d all fallen asleep around the campfire, all wrapped up and warm and toasty.

Rocket’d been the last to fall asleep. He’d been looking up at the dark sky and marveling once again that he’d actually gotten to see the stars, tiny pinpricks of light dancing above him in swirls of colors through the vast and spinning void of space.

It’d been a nice thing to see.

Real nice.

Not like now.

Not this.

The only light here was too bright and too harsh, and the only colors were white and sharp silver, and they burned into his eyes and glinted off the scalpel the thing was holding over his chest, and worst of all, he was _alone_. Rocket swallowed hard again, tried at least to remember what the stars looked like.

He couldn’t.

Rocket whimpered a little at that.

Rocket decided he didn’t want to see what happened next. He squeezed his eyes shut with an effort, dreading the cold bite of the scalpel into whatever-piece-they’d-decided-needed-improving. Maybe it’d be his eyes this time. Or his claws. Or his heart. They’d done it before.

But this time, it didn’t happen.

The scalpel didn’t come down. The thing above him had paused. It sounded faintly puzzled. “Geren?”

Then, another voice.

Buzzing in over what sounded a little like a comm system.

A cold voice.

“Knock, knock.”

The thing above him sounded puzzled.

“Who’s there?”

“Kneecap.”

“Kneecap wh—?”

Then there was a harsh BANG, and an eye-searing burst of light, and a scream from the thing standing above Rocket’s head.

“Kneecap _you_.” The cold voice said, and there was no trace of humor or laughter in it. Another harsh BANG, another burst of light, and another awful scream.

Then the masked figure dropped out of sight, and a different mask—this one with angry glowing red eyes and metal grates surrounding them instead of skin—appeared.

Rocket whimpered again and tried to get away, trying to twist his paws to try and loosen the restraints.

News flash, that trick didn’t work this time either. Paralyzing drugs were still paralyzing drugs.

Then the new mask dematerialized, and a somehow familiar face was staring down at him. This guy looked scarier than the other guy had. But it was a different sort of scary. But it definitely wasn’t a methodical-going-to-dissect-you-for-science scary.

“Aw, _Rocket_.” The new guy said, and his angry face suddenly twisted into something awful, as if shrapnel was shredding its way through his chest. Rocket didn’t know why the other guy looked like that. _He_ wasn’t the one strapped down to an operating table.

“Rocket, just…God, uh…just, just hang on a sec—“

He reached out a gloved hand. Rocket’s ears flattened and he snarled as best he could. The other guy stopped short at that, swallowing hard.

“Okay, uh, it’s okay, I’m just—just—I’m—I’m tryin to get you out of there, okay?”

He tried reaching out again, then noticed how Rocket’s eyes were still fixed on his gloved hand. He blinked hard, then, with a visible effort, pulled his arm away. Then he stopped short and half-turned, glaring down at something out of Rocket’s line of sight.

Then the guy turned back towards Rocket, shifting slightly, put what looked like a still-smoking blaster back into a side holster. As he did that, he ripped at the glove still on his hand with his teeth, impatiently tugging it off and then yanking his other glove off as well.

Rocket watched him with dull, tired eyes. He wished this thing would just do whatever it was gonna do and then have done.

It swallowed hard again at Rocket’s stare and, very, very, very slowly, reached out again.

Rocket stiffened again. But the thing was talking. To him. Not above him, not about him, but to him. Rocket figured the least he could do was listen.

(It wasn’t like he was able to do much else at the moment anyway.)

“….me, Peter, remember? Your ol pal? You make bombs out of my—our—ship, and hide em in boxes, and it plays merry hell with spring cleaning, but we wouldn’t have it any other way—“

Rocket narrowly studied the hands coming towards him. The thing saw him doing so and kept rambling on. “…eah, see, that scar on my thumb there is from that time you fell asleep when you were makin a bomb on the lower deck, and I tried moving you, and you almost bit my hand off—but ’z cool, man, I wasn’t mad, not really, you weren’t awake at the time—“

Slowly, ever so slowly, Rocket’s shoulders released the tiniest, tiniest bit of tension. The thing kept talking. “….uh, and, uh, see that other mark, the big burn one? That’s when the bomb went _off_ , heheh, but good thing we had an airlock handy, amIright?”

Rocket blinked slowly, his previous panic gradually ebbing away. The other guy’s face and voice were so familiar, somehow. He didn’t belong here. Not in the place with the bright lights and the sharp things.

The other guy…he had a name.

“…eter…”

It’s—Peter’s—eyes widened, even though Rocket knew he couldn’t have been very audible through the mask. Peter swallowed hard again and blinked really fast. “Yeah, pal, it’s me.” He motioned at the mask, at the restraints. “I’m here to get you out.” He shot Rocket a quick look. “That okay?”

Rocket blinked hard and sniffled a little, wishing he could turn away, instead of having snot and tears keep dribbling down his muzzle and smear all over his front.

“Yisss.” He whispered, unsuccessfully trying to nod. Peter’s friendly grin flattened a little, just for a second. Then he winked cheerily down at his friend, started talkin again, started unclamping restraints and removing the mask and the tubes. Above all, he carefully told Rocket what he was going to do well before he did it.

The tiny part of Rocket’s mind still following along was grateful for that. And wryly noted that for all his dance-off goofiness, the self-styled Star-Munch was a pretty scary dude when he got pissed off.

The moaning scientist on the floor found that out the hard way. He’d reached for his fallen scalpel and tried driving it into Peter’s ankle, snarling something about “years of my work” and how “no one was stealing my research”.

Unfortunately for him, he’d stabbed the scalpel down into one of Peter’s rocketboots.

And even more unfortunately, called Rocket his “work” and “research”.

Peter paused for a second, flicked his glance down at the scientist, and narrowed his eyes. Rocket saw something definitely-not-goofy-or-amused flash through them for a moment, and groggily remembered that Ronan had gotten that same look just before the Infinity Stone burned him to bits of ash.

“First off, his _name_ is _Rocket_.” Peter said flatly. “Second—“ He made a brief, angry motion off to the side that Rocket couldn’t quite see.

There was a sudden flash of light, a shrill scream.

The scientist fell back, clutching at his hand.

Or what had used to be his hand.

It was hard to tell, with it being sort of on fire and all.

Rocketboots. Multiple uses. Gotta love em.

Peter finished disentangling Rocket from the mess of tubes and wires and carefully lifted him up and away from the operating table. Ordinarily Rocket would have groused about being carried around like some dast humie infant or a friggin doll, but now…now he was just too tired.

And too flarging scared.

He realized he’d grabbed hold of Peter’s shirt with one still-mostly-paralyzed paw, and that his claws were digging into Pete’s chest and probably hurt.

Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“We’re gonna get you all fixed up.” Peter said cheerily, striding confidently towards the doorway—which, Rocket noted appreciatively, had a nice huge hole blown through it. The ends of the hole still dimly glowed molten red. He musta been _really_ out of it not to have noticed _that_ explosion.

“Nova Prime’s lending us her support on this one, and man oh man is Groot gonna be happy to see you back on the Milano, he wants to surprise you with this secret recipe thingy—whooops, almost said what it was, but, seriously, man, you’re gonna love the flavor he came up with—I mean, you like cake, right?—well Mantis said that Groot said that this one is gonna be special and you'll love it, sooooo—“

Behind them, still curled up over his burned hand and his bleeding legs, the scientist sneered and flung the last weapon he had left at them.

“Have fun with your _pet_.” he snarled. “I hear it has a problem keeping its little paws off shiny objects.”

Rocket curled in a little closer to Peter at that, his shoulders tensing painfully. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to steal those batteries from the Sovereign. He knew Peter’d gotten mad at him for that. He shouldn’t be part of the team. He was a bad example to Groot. He wasn’t nice to his team. He stole things and built bombs and got into fights and had a temper shorter than the fuse on ten second grenades.

He was a terrible Guardian.

He shouldn’t be a Guardian at all.

Peter’d stopped walking.

Turned around.

Rocket felt his paws twist tighter into Peter’s shirt. He knew he shouldn’t be a Guardian, but he didn’t want to go back to being an experiment, he _realllllly_ didn’t, maybe once he got his voice back he could ask really nicely if they could just give him one more…

“…eter?…” He tried, weakly. It came out as a croak.

_**“Shut up.”**_ Peter snapped, and Rocket could have cried with relief.

Peter wasn’t talking to him.

“This guy—“ Rocket felt Peter’s head jerk angrily down at him in a “see?!” kind of gesture—“saved your frigging planet, AFTER you TORTURED HIM for SCIENCE. Which is a STUPID reason to HURT people, by the way, but I’m not gonna get into that now. POINT IS, HE’S NOT A FLARGING PET, YOU PSYCHO.”

Through his claws, Rocket felt Peter’s voice as it rumbled its way out of the other guy’s chest, and holy flarging flark was Pete’s voice scary.

It was usually so nice. Saying funny things, laughing, joking around.

It wasn’t ever this dark.

“Pal, you are _so_ lucky that _I’m_ the one who found him. And not The Most Dangerous Woman In The Galaxy. Or the Destroyer. Or my dad’s Ravager crew.”

“Oh?” the scientist scoffed. “Why is that?”

“Because _ **I**_ ,” Peter snarled, “only have time to do _**THIS**_.”

Rocket felt Peter lean backward a little, his balance shifting back to one leg. There was a dull crunching sound followed by a shriek of pain.

Rocket curled his claws a little tighter into Peter’s chest at that. Normally he might have laughed, hell, he probably would’ve helped, but now he just wanted to get away from the scary room and the bright lights and the ugly sounds the scientist was making.

Peter must have realized that. Rocket felt the room shifting around them as Peter turned quickly around and shot out of the room and down the hallway.

Literally, shot out.

Rocketboots were cool.

That was the last thing Rocket thought before the merciful blackness that’d been avoiding him for so long closed in around him.

***

Later, Rocket woke to find himself securely tucked away in the _Milano_ , and heard the voices of his teammat—his family around him. He was wrapped up in something warm and soft, and the faintly shining stars visible through the curved glass of the cockpit seemed to sway back and forth above him. The swaying motion was slow and oddly soothing, though, so he didn’t mind. Somebody humming nearby. Pete’s voice drifting in through the soothing haze.

“—yeah, well, I figured he wasn’t gonna need that arm. And after that, the jerk started reachin for a security button. Had ta incapacitate him.”

Another voice, less familiar, more robotic, crackling in over the comms. Oh, that chubby curly-haired dude with the uniform. Day.

“You _kicked_ him in the _face_ , Quill.”

Peter made a “meh” sound. Rocket could picture him shrugging along with the gesture. When he spoke, his voice was flat, almost bored. “Broken noses incapacitate people _really_ well, Day.”

Day hmmmed, and when he spoke next, it was clear he was striving very hard to sound condemnatory. “Hmph. Next time—“

Peter cut him off, voice hardening a little. “There isn’t gonna _be_ a _next time_. Tell me those jackasses are getting what’s comin to em.”

Day’s own voice was grim. “They are.” He paused before continuing. “All the same, you and your group might want to find a quiet spot to lay low for a few phases. The Collector was sniffing around the remains of the lab, asking after….well. Remnants. For his collection.” He coughed, once. “Figured you’d wanna know.”

Peter growled, but he wasn’t angry with Day. “Got it. Thanks for givin us the heads up, man.”

At the word “collection”, Rocket twitched a little, worrisome images and memories flickering somewhere just under his edge of consciousness. The rocking motion of the stars above him slowed, and he fuzzily realized someone was looking down at him. Dark brown eyes smiled at him.

“You’re awake.” a soft voice said. It sounded pleased.

Rocket blinked and yawned a little. His voice still didn’t want to work very well. ‘…ammy.” he murmured.

A few thumps from somewhere nearby, heavy footfalls coming closer to them. A deep voice speaking behind Gamorra’s shoulder, clearly trying its hardest to speak quietly, and only partially failing.

“Is our friend cognizant once more?”

The dark head above Rocket shook a little. “He’s still groggy. Give him time.” Another voice, this one higher, female. “Would he mind it if we say hello, do you think?”

“No, Mantis. You can say hello. Just—just still be as quiet as you can.”

A smaller head, with two feathery antennae waving gently above its forehead, swam into Rocket’s blurry line of sight. “Hello Rocket.” The little face whispered. “We are very glad you are back.”

Rocket felt something small clamber its way up to him, and a tiny hand tug insistently at his arm. Rocket turned his head a fraction to the side, and looked straight into big brown eyes that instantly welled with happy tears.

“IamGroot.” The little twig said, and Rocket felt tiny fingers curl protectively around one of his claws.

“….ey, Groot.” he mumbled. Groot said nothing else, but happily nuzzled against Rocket’s neck with a relieved little sigh.

Peter’s voice broke in on Rocket’s drifting mind.

“Hey guys.” he said in a low voice. “Got a call from a farmin planet way out in the Epsilon quadrant. They’re havin issues with meteorites. Some of ‘em are as big as moons. They’re looking for somebody to clear ‘em out, shoot em inta more manageable bits.”

Rocket turned his head a little, and Peter’s dim form swam into view. Rocket blinked up at him. Peter smiled fondly back. “Whadda think, Rocket? You up for blowing up a few moons?”

Rocket blinked again, yawned widely. He’d realized that he was bundled up in the warmest and fluffiest blanket the _Milano_ had to offer. And that Gamorra was rocking him back and forth up on the flight deck, where he could see the stars. Peter was in the other pilot seat, where he’d just signed off from his call with Day, and Drax was standing behind Gamorra’s seat, one big hand clutching the back of her headrest. Mantis peeked out from behind him, and Groot was still contentedly perched on Rocket’s shoulder.

Rocket smiled a little. He was safe. His family still wanted him. And they wanted to blow up moons.

“Uh….yeaaaah.” he whispered, and saw their respective faces light up.


	2. Gamorra and Nebula

Fighting his way through the howling wind and squinting so he could see the ground just in front of him, Peter resignedly realized that he should have known that his rocketboots would not hold up well during a sandstorm.

Especially on this middle-of-nowhere-moon in the Ransvarian system. True, his boots were pretty all-around badass if he did say so himself. True, they operated pretty well in almost every environment.

But…freaking desert _planets_ , man.

All that sand was MURDER on even awesome electronics.

Which is why he’d thought it was a terrible idea for Gamorra to come down here alone.

But she’s snatched a shuttle and shot down here anyway. He hadn’t been far behind, but DANG that girl was FAST.

“—AMOORRRAAAA!” he hollered again through his comms. At least those were working. Mostly. Sort of. Like his mask.

“COME ON GAMMY, WE GOTTA WORK TOGETHER ON THIS ONE!!”

Her voice patched through her comms, crackling and garbled.

“—told you—only get—chance at this—“

Peter sighed feelingly. “But you won’t do her any good if you get yourself flarging lost, Gamorra! I don’t care how little your sister trusts anyone else, I don’ wan you ta die on this mission either!”

“—almost at her signal—wait—see something—“

Of course, his girlfriend’s comms chose that _exact_ moment to completely stop working. Peter cursed and increased his slog to a trot, scanning the surrounding ruins as best he could. Once again he made a mental note to strenuously protest the Reradren’s practice of imprisoning criminals. Shooting them down onto this gods-forsaken desert planet without a proper trial, any way off the dang planet, or enough food and water to last them for more than two days.

There was _justice_ , and then there was _murder_.

Peter was debating between sending an impassioned and swear-filled complaint directly to Nova Prime, or finding the nearest gathering of Reradren’s highest-ranking officials and smashing it to pieces as a means of stress-relief, when Gamorra’s voice crackled in once more over his comms.

“—ETER!” The raw fear in her voice shoved every other thought out of Peter’s head. “I NEED YOU, NOW!” A faint green beacon fluttered to life on his screens display, maddeningly faint but luckily close by.

Peter redoubled his pace, activating his his own emergency beacon into life so that the _Milano_ would have a chance of finding them. He narrowed his eyes, glaring through the surrounding storm, hoping against hope that he could find her before—

He tripped on something and staggered, only barely managing to catch himself from falling flat on his face.

The something he’d tripped over groaned and moved. So, not something. Some _one_.

Peter scrambled back over, going down to one knee. Then he stopped, staring, wide-eyed behind his mask.

“Holy _crap._ ” He breathed.

****

The comms unit labeled “FER EMERJENCY USE ONELY” buzzed from the spot where it lay on Yondu’s desk. It buzzed again, vibrating a few inches towards the edge of the desk. Then it reached the edge and stayed there for a moment, precariously balanced. Then gravity won the silent fight and the comm unit, still buzzing, plummeted towards the chaotic sea of accumulated crud that made up the floor.

A scarred blue hand snatched it out of the air. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy with lack of sleep, Yondu clicked the comms unit open and stared worriedly at the screen.

His son’s face looked back at him, blue eyes bloodshot, curly hair mussed.

“Yondu!” he squeaked, his voice an octave or so higher than normal. “Help!”

Yondu blinked again, feeling his initial adrenaline rush die away at the lack of blood or visible fatal injury. The kid didn’t seem to be dyin, or be the kind of panicked that came with dyin—or with one of his friends dyin. Yondu yawned and scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“Whas’ the emergency, boy?” he said, a little severely.

Peter chanced a desperate look over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a frantic whisper.

“You gotta help me! Something SUPER WIERD has happened!”

Yondu yawned again, raising a tired eyebrow. “How weird?”

Peter made a frenzied waving motion with both hands. “SUPER WIERD!” he babbled. “Like….like on a scale of one to ten, it’s a freaking FIFTEEN!”

Yondu scratched resignedly at his chin, and generously decided not to point out that fifteen was not on the scale his son had just given less than two seconds before.

“Mmmm.” he grunted. “Whas’ the emergency, boyo? Details. Can’ help ya if yer blatherin like a drunk Skrevren after All Spirits Eve.”

Peter scowled a little at that. “I’m not drunk!” he said indignantly. A wistful look crossed his face. “Although I sure as heck wish I was….” There was a crashing sound from somewhere off screen and Peter stopped rubbing his face with one grimy hand long enough to holler “I SAID DON’T TOUCH THAT—UH, PLEASE—“ and then looked frantically back at his dad.

“They’re all…” his voice lowered to a whisper “….small!’

Yondu raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Bout half yer crew is short, Quill. That ain’t no emergency, jus’ proportions.”

Peter made nixing motions with his hands. “Not that kind of small! Like, little, small!” He cursed himself, then tried clarifying further when Yondu gave him the flat look that said “So help me Celestials I will _hang up_ on you if you don’t start making sense _right the hell now_ , boyo”.

“Like—kid, small, like, little, small. ARGH—MY FRIENDS GOT TURNED INTA KIDS!!” He all but howled. Peter waited for this news to sink in. Then he scowled at the screen.

“It’s not _funny_.” he growled. Yondu tried to answer, but couldn’t. Once he was able to breathe again, he looked back at the screen, wiping a tear away from the corner of his eye. Peter looked grumpy.

“Ahhh…..ehem. What?”

Peter stared bug-eyed off camera for a second, then visibly shook himself and forced his attention back to Yondu.

“Well—well, see, we were going to pick up Gamorra’s sister Nebula off this death-moon she’d gotten herself shot down to. Bastards didn’t even give her a trial or anything. So, anyways, we get down there, and it’s this sand place, and Gamorra finds her first, then I find Gamorra, and it turns out somethin’s wierd down there—maybe it was the planet itself?—but anyways long story short—“

“—that’ll be a first.” Yondu muttered to himself.

“—Nebula, like, I dunno, DE-AGED or somethin while she was down on the moon! Instead of bein almost thirty solar cycles she’s, like, MAAAAYBE almost ten, and geeeeez was that somethin to try and deal with. She and Gamorra started to get along fine, though, so that was somethin.”

Yondu decided to stay on the line. He hadn’t laughed this hard in years. But he did manage to make an observation.

“One lil’ girl on yer ship an’ you lose yer mind? Yew got what, three other adults with yew? Not ta mention the twig and the lil’ mental powers one. Yew sayin you can’t handle that?”

Quill ran a distracted hand through his hair.

“No, nonono, at first it was fine—crazy, but fine—but, Yondu, now ALL OF EM ARE DEAGED!”

He made frantic waving motions with his hands. “Like, they all started gettin sick, and then they went ta sleep, and then they all started gettin….little! Don’ ask me how it works, man—best I can figure is that it’s somethin on the planet, like a sickness, or the flu, or something, and somehow we caught it while we were down there, or, like, maybe Gamorra caught it and spread it to the rest of us, and—and now like, everyone’s smaller than they used ta be, and it’s absolute and utter—ROCKET, NO! NO, YOU **CANNOT** BLOW THAT UP. PUT IT DOWN! HEY! DRAX? **_DRAX!_** YOU CANNOT BODY SLAM ROCKET JUST BECAUSE HE TOOK YOUR STUFF, OKAY, THAT IS **NOT** OKAY!”

Yondu sucked at his teeth and stared narrowly at the small figure currently howling rules on the other end of the line.

“Yew don’t look so good yerself, boyo.” He said shrewdly. Peter coughed, then wiped his nose on one sleeve.

“Eh, I’m fide.” he said thickly. “Somebudy’s godda keep order aroud here.” He paused, then turned his head swiftly to the side and sneezed so hard the communicator shook. The riot of voices and sounds offscreen slackened. Then a flurry of voices and small bodies flocked around Yondu’s son, bright eyes and interested gazes crowding in to look at the tiny screen.

“Who is that?” a little girl with bright green skin asked, poking interestedly at the communicator.

“He might be hostile.” an even smaller little blue girl said seriously. She glared at the screen, her cybernetic implants sparking dully in the dim light from the monitors.

Her robotic hand curled protectively around the green girl’s arm. “We should practice evasive tactics. In case he wants to take you away. Or back to Father.”

The green girl shook her off, but gently. “Not everyone wants to take me back to Father, Neb.”

Nebula glared pointedly at the communicator. “True. Some want to torture you to death. Father most of all.” She looked seriously at her sister, and Yondu frowned thoughtfully at the next thing the little girl said. “I promise I will kill you quickly myself before that happens. You are my least hated sister, Gamorra.”

Well, **_hell_**. That explained some things.

The green skinned girl sighed heavily, but let herself be dragged away from the small screen. “Fine, evasive tactics it is. And you are my least hated sister too, Nebula.”

A small, thick hand, with thin red tattoos curling around it, grasped possessively at the communicator. “Who is this?” a deep little voice demanded. A short little figure, protectively clutching at a cooing green bundle, turned the communicator from side to side.

“The Tooth Fairy.” Yondu said sarcastically. A miniature version of Drax the Destroyer glared thoughtfully at him. “Unlikely.” he said. “There is no such entity.” The little boy looked down at the cooing green bundle, who burbled happily up at him. “This is Mantis.” he said seriously. “I am taking care of her.”

Yondu stifled a huge grin. “Aw, are ya now.”

Drax the mini-Destroyer stiffened indignantly. “Am so!” He gestured scornfully off screen. “I am taking better care of her than the small rodent does of its tree.” He snorted. “Hmph. The tree is taking better care of its rodent.”

Yondu caught a brief glimpse of a slightly-bewildered, but very-happy-Baby-Groot, lovingly lugging around a small snarling raccoon cub twice its size like a ridiculously oversized teddy bear, before Peter reclaimed the communicator and wearily turned it back towards himself.

“Groot, Drax, why dontcha play on different sides of the ship for now. Girls, just—just don’t evasive maneuver yourselves into the engine or the airlocks, kay?”  
There was no definable answer, just the assorted yells and sounds of small children noisily living in a very small spacecraft.

Peter sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. Yondu bit his lip, noticing just how badly the boy was sweating and how much he’d paled in the last few minutes.

“What are yer coordinates, boyo?” Yondu said brusquely. Peter waved a hand wearily at the screen. “Sent em to ya already.” he said tiredly.

Yondu scanned them again, then shot him a politely incredulous look. “That’d put us straight into a sun, boyo.”

Peter blinked fuzzily, brought the communicator closer to his eyes as if double checking something.

“Ugh, right, zorry. The zero’s in the wrong place. Onea the kids must’ve hit—eh, nevermind.” Peter laboriously typed something on his keyboard, then slowly hit send, his blinking eyes dull and heavy with fatigue.

Yondu reviewed the new coordinates, then nodded. “We’re on our way. Jus’ don’t yew—Peter? _Peter_!”

His son had, from all appearances, slid out of his chair and fallen onto the floor. Yondu tried yelling his name a few more times, but all he could see was a cluster of children—including the suddenly materialized girls—crowding around the shivering figure on the floor.

Yondu thought quickly. He cleared his throat, then tried for an ingratiating smile. Given that the green-skinned one blanched when she saw it, and that the blue-skinned one pulled an improvised knife from somewhere on her person and protectively stepped between her sister and the screen, maybe it hadn’t been as un-menacing as Yondu had hoped it’d be.

“Hey there, kiddos.” he said, hoping he sounded didn’t sound half as nervous as he felt. “Ya’ll jus’ stay there fer now, kay? I’ve got, uh, presents fer ya. Gotta know where ya are to get them to ya.”

The green-skinned one glared suspiciously at him. “Presents?”

The blue-skinned one snorted and flicked her sharpened piece of rebar reflexively. “He’s lying. We should warp.”

Yondu choked a little. He really didn’t like the thought of a bunch of bizarrely-miniaturized Guardians zapping celestials-knew-where around the galaxy.

“—I meant ta say weapons, to, uh, present to ya.” Yondu lied, realizing where he’d gone wrong. At their age, Quill’d always been suspicious of anything labeled a “present”. Opportunities for trading and/or screwing other people over during a deal, however….

“Yer leader there’s set up a trade. I got some pretty good firepower, if ah do say so myself. Jus’ hang tight, if ya would. Me n’ mine’ll be there ta barter with you lot in jus’ a few.”

The children clustered around the screen shared dubious looks. Then there was a coughing sound, and another small figure rose up to join the child conference. Its curled hair was sweaty and sticking straight up, and the boy was grimly holding his now much-too-large pants up with one hand. The other hand was scratching meditatively at the back of the thin neck which stuck straight up out of his baggy t-shirt.

Yondu felt his heart stutter a little at the sight. It’d been solar cycles since Peter’d been that tiny.

He was adorable.

His son—now inexplicably and adorably less than ten years old—yawned widely.

“You show us the goods up front first or it’s no deal.” Peter said off-handedly, knuckling one fist into his eyes. The other kids chorused in agreement.

Yondu bit back a warm smile. Less than ten solar cycles old and sick out of his mind, and still his son did him proud.

“Deal.” he said sincerely. He’d figure out a way to make sure the kids didn’t warp anywhere once he got there, and they could start figuring out what to do after that. It might be hard to earn their trust or get onto their ship, but he’d figure out a way to do it without scarin any of em.

He didn’t like to remember it, but he’d been that small and that powerless once.

He’d be _damned_ if he _ever_  took advantage of kids that small himself. Bringing Ego's kids to the jackass planet had been a mistake, one that would haunt him until the day he died. But he'd never purposefully scared the little ones. (Well, maybe except Quill. A little. The whole 'eating' thing had been a joke anyway.) And he sure as hell wasn't gonna scare the kids now.

But, honestly, old and painful memories aside, hell, this whole thing was _hilarious_. He couldn’t wait to wake up the rest of his crew and tell them. Tullk would laugh his flargin head off.

****

  
“Stakar! Help!”

The leader of the Ravagers blinked woozily at his comms screen. It’d been cycles since he last talked to Yondu Udonta. True, he’d let his former protege back into the fold after that whole business about saving the galaxy from the evil sentient planet thing. But Yondu’d still been reluctant to contact him after that.  
Stakar had thought that maybe he should be the one to make the first move. But Aleta had advised against it. She’d said Yondu would take the first step when he was ready for it.

Stakar had thought she’d had a point.

He just hadn’t thought Yondu would call him on the “EMERJENCIE ONLEE” comm.

At one in the morning.

“‘—sa matter?!” the grey-haired Ravager gasped. “Somebody dyin?!”

“—worse.” his estranged son gasped, looking almost white under his pale blue skin. “…plague.”

Stakar swallowed hard, wiping sleep out of his eyes. “What kind?” he asked brusquely, already plotting out various lines of action in his mind. Once he found out where Yondu was, he could get his crews to find the right kind of cure. Then they’d figure out a way to get it onto the kid’s ship without it infecting the rest of the Ravager fleet, and once the damn plague was contained, then Stakar would march onboard and throttle Yondu for almost giving him a heart attack. (Then he’d probably pull the little blue-skinned bastard into a hug, but Starkar made himself focus on the urgent matter at hand first).

Yondu was still starin at him, red eyes wide. “Not that kinda plague.” he rasped. He rubbed the back of his fin with one trembling hand. “…the de-agin one.”

Stakar stared at him, eyes wide.

“The…what?”

“The de-agin one.” Yondu hissed again. “Ya know, the one all the Ravagers is supp’sed ta be immune ta? Yew made all yers get those shots all dem years ago. Back whin I was still parta the—uh, in the fleet.”

Stakar nodded fuzzily, still trying to decipher the look on Yondu’s face. “What’re you…” he started. Then he stopped, an idea flashing across his sleep-fuddled mind.

He grinned all over his face.

“Yondu, yer crew ain’t all **_kids_** , is they?”

Yondu’s simultaneously annoyed yet frantic expression said it all.

Stakar’s bellow of laughter bounced off the worn metal walls of his room. Yondu’s jaw jutted out defensively.

“…z’ not funny.” he growled.

Stakar snorted so hard he almost lost his breath again. “…’z _hilarious_.” he wheezed.

Yondu grimly waited until his former captain had gained control of himself. “….whaz’ yer coordinates, boyo?” Stakar finally was able to ask. “We’ll getchu the meds, no worries.” He couldn’t resist asking his next question, though. “How the hell did you get an entire group ‘a Ravagers de-aged?” he said, willing his voice not to crack.

“…’s helpin out my kid.” Yondu muttered. Stakar’s scarred eyebrow shot up. “Oh, that Terran kid? Yer Peter?”

Yondu shot him a look which was a strange mix of defensiveness and pride. “Yeah. His crew caught it first.” he said, as if that explained everything.

Stakar snorted and shrugged. “ ‘kay. How lil’ are they now?”

Yondu looked exhausted. “It’s hard ta tell with the dance party happenin, but mebbe four solar cycles? Yew would not _believe_ how _exhausting_ they are.” Then Yondu looked off to the side and yelped, true panic shooting through his voice.

“Rockit, _**no**_! Thas’ far too flammable fer you ta be handlin—Tullk, stop that! Stop him! An’ no, **_yer_** not supposed ta be wavin firearms round neither! Git back here!”  
Yondu swiftly disappeared, but the connection still held.

As he started sending orders to his own crew, Stakar caught a glimpse of a scrawny looking kid practically swimming in a Ravager coat wobble his way towards a crying little blue-skinned girl. She was cradling her cybernetic arm in her flesh one, and was sobbing her heart out. Sparks had started to flick out of her metallic palm, and the gears in one of the fingers looked scuffed and stuck.

A green skinned girl was tearfully patting the little blue one’s smooth head, and a curly-haired Terran kid was hanging awkwardly around in the background, worriedly offering them both a pair of worn headphones as if they held the key to magically making everything better. The green girl looked lost, and the blue-skinned girl just curled up over her hand and cried harder.

Then the scrawny Xandarian boy plopped down next to the blue skinned girl and studied her malfunctioning hand seriously, taking it carefully in both his scarred ones. Then he leaned down and kissed it.

The little blue girl stopped crying for a moment and studied him amazedly. The scarred Xandarian boy looked back at her, then shrugged out of his far-too-big Ravager jacket and wrapped it around the both of them. The green skinned girl and the curly haired boy looked down at the two new friends, then back at each other.

Stakar finished issuing orders to his med bay to get their shit together stat and to the navigation crew to jump the hell to the new coordinates asap. The old Ravager captain felt an old and almost unfamiliar smile creep back over his face as he saw the little blue girl sniffle, then reach out and warily hug the little Xandarian boy with her flesh arm, the two of them still draped in that big red coat so that it looked more like a tent than an article of clothing.

The Xandarian kid looked like Kraglin.

If Kraglin had been four years old.

And if he’d ever been cute.

Ah, hell. Stakar was probably imagining things.

****

  
After everything had finally been sorted out, and everyone was more or less the right age, one of the galaxy’s deadliest (and most modified) assassins made her way down to the _Eclector_ ’s engine rooms.

Yondu’s second in command saw her coming. And his face was just a little too red for his vibrant color to be attributed only to the engines currently roaring away under their feet.

Nebula studied him warily.

He studied her back out of the corner of one eye.

She tossed a worn leather jacket at his head. “This is yours.”

Kraglin caught it with one hand and shuffled into it as fast as he could. “Uhhhh, yep, yep, yep it is.” he muttered.

Nebula stared at him out of her fathomless dark eyes. Then she reached behind her back and swiftly pulled out a gun. Kraglin blinked, then belatedly snatched the weapon out of the air as she tossed it at him.

“I fixed your gun.” Nebula said woodenly. “It will kill your enemies twice as efficiently now.”

Kraglin whistled as he checked the chambers and the settings. “Sure will.” There was an awkward pause between the assassin and the Ravager.

“Uh, thanks.” Kraglin said, not sure if that was correct but wanting to say something anyway.

Nebula said nothing back. The thought flashed across Kraglin’s mind that maybe she did not know what to say either. After another half-minute of uncertain silence, she suddenly turned swiftly around and took a decisive step back towards the ladder leading up to the rest of the ship.

“Uh….you wanta…come with me ta…get a drink?” Kraglin offered, feeling unreasonably hot under his collar.

Nebula whipped around and studied him fixedly. “I am half-cyborg. I do not get thirsty.”

Kraglin sucked in his lip and nodded, trying not to look disappointed.

Nebula’s expression did not change. Except, maybe, big maybe, a quick flash of light that momentarily appeared far back in her eyes.

“…but…” she said, her voice less inflexible than before, almost hesitant, “…I do get very… hungry?” Her face shifted a little, in what might have been a poor attempt at a smile, or at least a conciliatory expression. “…so…perhaps…maybe we could…get a snack.”

Kraglin didn’t exactly jump up in delight, but he did knock his head against the low-hanging ceiling of the engine room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all _so much_ for reading and for your feedback! I'm trying to respond to each comment individually but thought I'd post this next chapter at least. :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed getting a glimpse of de-aged Guardians and Ravagers as much as I did! (Also, for clarification purposes, Yondu's immune to whatever this de-aging virus is because (*cough* it was funnier that way *cough*) uh, because he got an immunity shot/vaccination/whatever back when he was part of Stakar's group. *evil grin* Also....it's funnier that way. ;)


	3. Drax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, 
> 
> Still not feeling great, but wanted to get this chapters up for you! Enjoy!

Drax threw back another shot of fiery liquor and glared suspiciously at the man who’d just come in, and was now sitting next to him at the bar’s dirty counter.

“ ‘sup.” The man said, taking a long swig at the drink he’d just ordered.

“THANOS MUST DIE.” Drax said suddenly, narrowing his eyes as if daring the other man to object.

The other man blinked, then nodded. “True dat, buddy.”

Drax downed another shot. Brooded for awhile. Through the fuzzy haze clouding his mind, he thought of something else to say. He leaned forward a little bit and slurred his next words in a menacing growl. “I don’t like your face.” he said nastily.

The other man’s eyebrows climbed a little at that, then quickly smoothed out. He shrugged. “Eh, yeah, I get that a lot.”

Drax frowned a little. Agreement was not what he wanted. Not tonight. He wanted to fight something. To _destroy_ something. To destroy a lot of things. Then a bolt of blinding brilliance struck him.

“I DON’T LIKE YOUR JACKET!” he said triumphantly.

“Weellll, it is a…Ravager jacket…” the other guy said slowly.

“THAT IS TRUE.” Drax said mulishly. “AND RAVAGERS DO NOT KNOW HOW TO FIGHT. AT ALL.”

The other guy massaged the bridge of his nose briefly and sighed.

“ADDITIONALLY,” Drax added, “NO RAVAGER FIGHTS WITH HONOR. WHICH MAKES THEM ALL COWARDS.”

As he said it, Drax noted with secret delight that most—no, all— _all_ of the patrons in this bar tonight wore the distinctive Ravager red. And that they were turning to look at him.

The guy looked resignedly around the suddenly quiet bar, then tossed some units on the counter. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and jerked his head towards the door.

“All right, big guy, let’s go outside and you can show me just how much I don’t know about fightin—“

Drax didn’t wait for him to finish. He jumped him before the man had finished jerking his thumb at the door.

Then the rest of the other man’s Ravager friends piled into the fray.

It was a glorious battle.

Drax was able to destroy an awful lot of furniture and tossed at least four men through various parts of the bar.

Usually this would have made him laugh.

But today…

…today…

After he’d delivered a particularly powerful punch to the first Ravager’s solar plexus, then raised him up on tiptoe to finish him up with a felling punch to the jaw, Drax felt the fight suddenly drain out of him.

Because he recognized that face.

He paused, his fist already pulled back.

“Quill.” he said, voice utterly flat.

His friend—his leader—coughed a little, studying him out of the corner of one blackening eye.

“Yeah.” he rasped.

Drax blinked, then looked round the bar at the various groaning patrons, some of whom were wearily pulling themselves back to their feet. Then back at Quill.

“These are our friends from Yondu’s crew.”

Quill nodded again. “Yeah.” he rasped.

Drax cocked his head. “Why are they here?”

Quill shrugged a little, his red jacket shifting a little in Drax’s grip.

“I asked ‘em if they wanted a few extra units. Told ‘em you’ve been spoiling for a challenge for awhile now. Figured twenty to one would be enough to keep even you busy for a night. Plus they put bets down on how long they could stand up against ya. They figured they might as well make a profit on an inevitable bar fight.” Quill cocked his head a little. “Ya feelin better?”

Drax looked at the floor, his shoulders slumping. He shook his head slightly, feeling his fierce desire to fight die away, to be replaced by a steadily burning sense of shame. Then the deeper current of feeling that he’d been trying so hard to avoid swelled and crashed over him, all the stronger for having been pushed so far away for so long.

“…no…” he said, his own voice almost too soft for him to hear.

Quill said nothing, still studying him with that intense insight that sometimes seemed so out of place with his quick-talking personality.

Someone else had looked at him like that, long ago, big brown eyes alight with quiet insight and attentive kindness.

Long ago.

And she’d been so _little_.

Drax released his friend, still looking at the floor. Somehow, suddenly, it felt as if he’d been the one punched in the stomach.

No.

In the chest.

“…..today is…was…would have been….”

He swallowed hard.

“…Camaria would have been _fourteen_ solar cycles today.” he said, and part of him was horrified to find himself sobbing.

Quill nodded, almost as if he’d already known.

No.

_Exactly_ as if he’d already known.

Drax didn’t remember sitting down. Didn’t remember putting his head in his hands. But when he looked up, it was just him and Quill sitting side by side, in the middle of the wreckage of the bar. The rest of the patrons—the bystanding-brawlers-for-hire—had vanished sometime in the interim. Quill didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Neither of them did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you wonderful readers! Love you guys <3 
> 
> *stage whisper* Seeing your enjoyment and getting your feedback makes being sick not suck quite as much <3 <3


	4. Mantis and Groot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you thought PETER is scary when he's angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs weakly, quotes Loki from "Thor: The Dark World" when he pilots the ship through a ridiculously difficult gate:
> 
> ...Taaadaaaaa...
> 
> Updating a couple chapters today so I make _sure_ they get to you guys!

Mantis was _angry_.

Usually, she wasn’t.

Usually, there was a reason she could find to not be angry.

For instance, with Rocket. Her cranky furry friend was sometimes very cranky, but he was usually worried about something. Instead of showing how scared or tense he was, he’d be cranky to hide his fear. And he always apologized afterwards (or Groot or Drax or Peter or Gammy made him apologize), so she could not get angry at Rocket.

Gamora could be curt. Nebula could be downright hostile. But Mantis knew the nightmares they’d suffered at Thanos’ hands, and, more importantly, saw how hard each of them tried to fight that darkness inside of them. Gamora withdrew back into herself. Nebula raged. But both were still fighting, in their own way. The way Mantis had had to fight against Jason. Mantis knew how hard that was. So Mantis could not get angry with them.

Drax. Oh, she _never_ got angry at Drax.

Drax was wonderful, and protective, and earnest, and never ever _ever_ called Mantis stupid or worthless or a waste of space the way Jason always had. He had called her ignorant, once, but then explained that that was because she did not have the necessary knowledge to perform the task she’d set herself.

Then he’d shown her how to hold and throw the knives _correctly_ , and she’d hit the target this time (and only _sort of_ grazed Peter’s leg again as he’d limped woefully back past the lounge area), and Drax had roared with approval and said something like **SEE QUILL SHE IS NO LONGER IGNORANT** and from somewhere else in the ship, maybe the infirmary?, Peter’d said a faint _Yaaaaaay_ ….. and then for some reason Gamora had clicked in over the intercom and firmly told Drax that knife practice was _**over**_ for the day).

So Mantis never got angry at Drax.

Or Peter. Sometimes he could play his music a little too loud or for a little too long, or talk and talk and talk and talk—and talk—but he never laughed at her meanly, the way Jason had. And during the rare times he did get angry, he never hurt any of his friends just to make himself feel better, the way Jason had. So Mantis could not be angry at Peter.

Oh, and Groot. She could never be angry at Groot! Groot was her _best_ friend. He was cute, and smart, and funny, and a wonderful dancer. And he’d shown her all his secret shortcuts through the ventilation systems of the Milano.

Which had been very lucky, come to think of it.

Because Mantis was crawling through them now.

_**And she. was. angry.** _

She was _angry_ at the Collector for having called the Guardians two days before, claiming that since Groot had “technically” died saving Xandar, that the Collector now had full rights to what remained of him.

She was _angry_ remembering the way he’d just smiled at Peter’s deadly serious refusal of his “lucrative offer”, Gamora and Nebula’s icy stares, Drax’s silent sharpening of his knives, and Rocket’s snarling promises regarding explosives and sensitive parts of the Collector’s anatomy.

She was _angry_ remembering how confident the Collector had been.

Worse, she was _angry_ at how _easily_ he’d captured all of her friends.

Trying to snatch Groot away from them was bad enough. But modifying his creepy spider robots to swarm their ship in the middle of deserted space and incapacitate all the other Guardians was even worse.

When the attack had started, she hadn’t understood what was happening. She’d been in the kitchen helping Drax made dinner. Then the shouting and the shooting had started, and things had gotten so confused and so scary. She’d barely had time to nod when Rocket had all but pushed a coughing little Groot into her arms and shoved them both towards the ventilation ducts.

But she’d seen the spider robots snatch Rocket away, and latch those ugly energy cuffs onto his paws and back legs, so he couldn’t get away and the cuffs only hurt him when he’d tried.

And she’d seen them snatch Drax when Drax’d come to help Rocket.

And they’d done the same to Nebula when she’d tried to help Drax.

Mantis had had time to see _that_ part.

The little girl bit her lip as she came to a particularly murky intersection, her dark, burning anger flickering back into uncertainty for a moment. She needed to make the right choice here.

Or else her and Groot’s rescue mission wouldn’t even make it past twelve percent.

The sound of the Collector’s voice—transmitted through one of his stupid spiderbots, of course the big flargface couldn’t be bothered to come kidnap her best friend himself— sounded from underneath the gratings to her left.

Left it was, then.

“—am somewhat pressed for time.”

Somebody snarling something full of expletives. A dull thrum of electricity. A yelping little cry that died away into silence. Then another snarl, this time louder, longer, from Nebula. The newest member of their patchy space family _really_ didn’t like it when people hurt any of them—but especially Rocket—for fun. Which only made sense, because underneath all the crazy yelling and the cybernetics, Nebula was really just very scared and determined rather to die than go through anything like that again.

Sort of like Rocket. Also, Nebula liked to blow up moons, or anything else that threatened her or those she considered herself obligated to protect.

Which explained why she and Rocket were such good friends.

But thinking about that would not help Mantis get either Nebula—or Rocket—or any of them—away from the nasty spiderbots that currently had them all tied up and surrounded.

“—ey, jackass!”

Oh, dear. That was Peter talking. Mantis wiggled her knees and elbows a little bit more, trying to get into a better position to carry out her part of the plan.

Peter was trying to be a distraction, trying to make the bad robots hurt him instead of his team.

He was very good at that.

She should hurry.

She only had the one chance. And the tiny, silent watch she clutched in one hand was ticking steadily downwards to that one chance.

Inch by agonizing inch, Mantis crawled into position, peering carefully down into the room below her as she did so.

The robots had dragged everyone (except her and Groot) down into the main cabin of the Milano. Oh, that was not _nice_. That cabin was where her family ate meals together and where they played board games and where Rocket built bombs that could blow up moons—

—oh, how _dare_ that bad man come into her home and hurt her _family_ —how _dare_ he try to make them _afraid_ so they would give up Groot—or, failing that, just to make them _afraid_ , just to _hurt_ them—

—the Collector was—well, he was a bad word—he was a _jackass_ —

—Groot was angry about it too, he’d told her so as much, and his detailed explanation of what he’d like to do to the Collector had made Mantis’ stomach curl—

—but she had to focus now, she had to make sure she accomplished her part of the plan—

—which was that she had to stay quiet, and still, and unseen, until just the right—

—the robot, as tall as Peter and as wide as Drax, who was transmitting the hologram of the Collector, turned towards Peter, now, had raised its shock rod and jammed it into his side—it was asking him _where is the flora colossus_ , and then _where is the little girl_ —

—Peter’d writhed onto his side, then onto his back, gasping and shaking, muscles quivering and jerking from the volts coursing through his body. Then his eyes opened. He was staring up at the ceiling—at the vents—

He’d seen her. For just a second, Mantis stared into his eyes. And he stared back. He’d seen her. He must have seen Groot’s finger vines too, sliding out from the various vents, roiling down the walls, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Then the robot had asked the questions again.

Peter blinked, once, then deliberately turned his head and grinned cheekily over at the robot.

“—they’re—they’re not—here right now—but I could take—a message—please, heheh, please—eh-hem— _leaf_ a message for Groot and Mantis at the sound of the  ** _AAAAAAAAGGGHH_**!”

Unimpressed by his defiance—and by his pun—the robot applied the stun rod for slightly longer.

After it was done, Peter choked, gasped for breath, then grinned with bloody teeth. “Iz that all yew’ve got?” he asked, smirking in his best “pain-in-the-ass” manner.

Mantis swallowed hard. Peter had found her.

But he hadn’t said so. Even though it had gotten him hurt. Again.

Mantis wanted to hug him. Or exasperatedly hit him over the head with one of her shoes.

But that could all wait. Because at long last, the grate’s bolts gave way to Mantis’ desperate efforts to remove them. Just as her tiny watch flashed a frantic red.

From his vent, Groot’s finger vines snaked out as one, grabbed the spiderbots’ legs and swiftly entangled the room in a frantic mess of vines and snarled machinery.Once he’d made most of the spiderbots destroy each other, Groot’s finger vines snapped the restraints off of Rocket’s paws. Their small mechanic genius got the others out of their restraints in about ten seconds flat.

But Mantis hadn’t seen any of that.

She’d been too busy dropping onto the main spiderbot from above.

Completely silently, she latched onto what should have been its head. She found the control panel, swiftly flipped it open, and studied it for a moment. The stupid little hologram of the Collector had whirled round, and started to yell at her. She ignored him. He was a small angry voice coming from the tiny electronic box in his robot’s head…which, she knew, happened to be linked up to the Collector’s own nervous system. Much the same way Peter’s universal translator was hooked up to his own brain.

Mantis cocked her head to one side, studying the little flashing lights and the thin twisting wires in front of her. Then she curled her slender fingers around a few, and _pulled_.

The hologram of the Collector shrieked, clutching at its head. The spiderbot writhed. Mantis sprang up and away from the thrashing mess of failing machinery, and turned her landing into a quietly graceful somersault Nebula had shown her only a few days ago.

She finished the roll, then flicked her head up to see her family staring at her.

“You do not have to worry about the Collector anymore.” she told them affably. She tossed back her hair the way she’d seen Gamorra do it. “I made him afraid.”

“Of what?” Peter asked. His mouth wouldn’t stop hanging open.

Mantis smiled a little. It was not one of her nicer smiles. “ _Everything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you wonderful readers! Love you guys a lot <3 
> 
> *stage whisper* Seeing your enjoyment and getting your feedback makes being this friggin sick not suck quite as much <3 <3 
> 
> Still working on the last shot of this fic (when the Guardians find Peter). Not sure when it'll be finished, but hopefully you like these chapters here) <3 <3 
> 
> Also, BAMF MANTIS, you guys. Don't mess with the cute quiet one.


	5. Peter: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has lots of enemies. In powerful places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Uhm, so, I know this is supposed to be a five part deal, but, uh, Peter's part sort of ran away? a little? So there are multiple "chapters" for his part. *waits until happy squeeing subsides, grinning* Annnnnd I'll update as I can. Let me know what you think! :)

“Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey, crazy lady. What do you call this thing?”

The Kree High Priestess finally broke off her muttered chant and blinked at the Terran facing her.

“………..what?” she rasped, her expression blank.

The one who called himself Star-Lord jerked his head impatiently to the side, motioning as best he could to the thick stone pillar he was half-chained, half-harnessed to. The heavy stone collar encircling his neck hampered his usual easy movements, but the gesture was clear all the same.

“What’s this chair thing _called_?” the boy repeated. He was nonchalantly _curious_ , acting for all the world as if he were at a Xandarian planetary celebration or at one of the infrequent Ravager cyclical reunions.

Hela, the Kree High Priestess—known and feared throughout the quadrant as the spiritual and literal successor of Ronan the Accuser—blinked again.

“…I…no one has ever…asked…before…”

Peter Quill shrugged, once again hampered by the collar and the heavy metal restraints clamping his arms painfully together behind his back. “Obviously.” he huffed. He rolled his head over to his other side as best he could and called up to the transparent view-screen hovering behind Hela’s back.

“Hey, Groot.” he called, in almost a sing-song tone. “How’s it go-in?” Hela half-turned herself to see what he was looking at.

There was a sudden rustle of leaves, and a tiny head peeked up from the bottom of the previously blank screen, large brown eyes worriedly studying the scene before them. They widened in horrified dismay as they caught sight of Hela, then widened still further as they glimpsed the battered figure held up in the grim framework behind her. “Iamgroot!” a little voice squeaked. The rustling head momentarily disappeared, then promptly reappeared behind a stretching, tiny leafy hand as the little thing jumped up, caught at the edge of the display, and scrabbled desperately at the control panel to climb higher.

The thing that called itself a Groot scrambled up onto the keyboard and worriedly pushed its little face against the bottom half of the screen, eyes flicking rapidly from worry to rage and then back again.

“Iam _Groot_!” it gasped.

Hela was glad to see that at least one of the self-styled heroes currently ruining her plans for galactic domination took the situation seriously.

“ ‘z cool, Groot.” The one called Star-Lord said, slurring a little. “I—I know this wasn’t parta the plan, but…but, uh, I jus’ wanted ta, ya know…check in…and since Hela already opened up her comms channel back ta Xandar, I thought I’d—ya know, I wanted to check and ask…how things were…uhn…goin…“

Hela turned back and studied her prisoner, frowning. For all his posturing and proud words, he hadn’t been able to fight off a mere three-dozen of her enforcers when they’d caught him entering her ship. And he had, embarrassingly, been violently ill when she’d first forced the honesty-inducing drugs on him. ( _Twice_. He’d thrown up _twice_ before her men had forced him into the harness. She’d wasted _two whole vials_ of the precious stuff on him, and wasn’t sure how much longer the third would stay down either. Which made him all but useless as a serious interrogation subject. The weakling.) However, despite everything, his eyes, when he spared her a glance, still gleamed with unbroken spirit.

Hela frowned again. Her prisoners were not _supposed_ to look like that. _Especially_ not when they were about to be executed, by her, in front of squads of her enforcers.

Quill caught her look and grinned at her. Hela narrowed her black-painted eyes.

“That _toxin_ ,” she said, between gritted teeth, “is supposed to be _excruciatingly_ painful.”

Her prisoner grimaced at that, sweat running down his temples. The thick finger-shaped bruises littering his jaw and neck flushed a few deeper shades of black and violet as his own color continued to fade. He swallowed hard, then shrugged a little, made as if to brush off her words—but then his expression twisted. Hela noted his pained grunt with approval. The toxin was working, then.

He couldn’t stop talking.

Even if he tried.

“…uhn, ow, well, yeah, it does hurt, a little—OW—okay, uh, so, it hurts, OW, okay, a lot, but, uh, ya know, I am, ow, honestly, honestly still—curious—I just—I just have no idea what this chair thing is called—I know, I know R--R--Ronan used somthin like this...an' you kill a lot of people in it—an, and then you take a bizarre sorta bubble bath in their blood, but, uh, really, what _is_ it?—“

Hela’s lips thinned. Quill’s drooping eyes wandered away from hers, then alighted on the useless little twig still making anguished “groooooooting” noises on the other end of the call.

“Iz’ cool, Groot, itz okay—OW—ow, uhn, ow—okay, no, no it’s not okay…but…I still wanted ta…ta make sure you’re all…okay…”

Quill looked like he might say something more, but choked, visibly trying to hold back his next words.

Hela stiffened, sudden, awful suspicion flashing through her mind. She slowly clenched the jagged ceremonial dagger she held at her side until her dark blue knuckles turned white. She forced herself to sound calm and in control when next she spoke. Even if she had been played for a fool, she refused to sound like one.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask your little friend?” she asked silkily. The boy twisted his head at her, the one eye she could see suddenly wide and scared.

“N—n—no—“

Hela’s smile hooded her eyes as his breath caught and he screamed.

“Y—yuh—yes,” he gasped. He choked again, all snarky amusement drained out of his voice when next he spoke.

“—I, uh, ehn—“

Hela waited patiently. He made it three more seconds.

“—ehn, Groot, I, I, I gotta, ehn, gotta know—did you get all the, ehnnnngh, kids, nghk, get the kids outta there?”

Hela’s grip tightened on the knife.

So. She had been right.

She, and her entire ship, her entire _flee_ t, had been played for fools. But she must not show how this realization affected her.

Her ears picked up a distressed squeak from the screen.

_“—OOOT!”_

Perhaps she was not as impassive as she’d thought.

“—I know she’s pissed, Groot, but—but, uhn, nnnggh, didja get the kids off the, nnngh, ships? I—I super hope you guys did, cuz—cuz my distraction didn’t work the, the way I hoped it, it would, an’—and otherwise she’s gonna bring ‘em in here and drain em all dry and use ‘em in that ceremony to christen this _stupid_ new flagship—“

The boy paused, gulping in air, words continuing to be wrenched out of him against his will. He’d figured out a way to still work in his typical defiance, though.

Hela would address that in a minute.

“—I mean, who—who thinks a—a literal blood bath—is a good—good idea anyway, I mean, come on, it’s _disgusting_ —“

Hela turned her head from studying her prisoner and glanced swiftly instead at the thing he was talking to. The little twig was swallowing hard, and was looking at her in turn.

Hela cocked her head. Then smiled. And stepped back and to the side so that she stood slightly behind Peter Quill, fully facing the screen as well.

She’d intended to broadcast the Star-Lord’s death to his friends, his allies, and the galaxy at large.

She still would, of course.

But she didn’t have to do it right away.

_“Yes.”_ she said, and enjoyed how both the little tree thing and the boy before her flinched at the purr in her voice. “Did you and your crew-mates find and rescue _all_ the children yet, little one? And exactly _which_ ships are you targeting now? There are so very _many_ in my fleet.”

The little thing blinked very quickly, chanced a quick, panicked look over its shoulder. “Iaaaaaam _Groot_!” it wailed.

Quill was talking again, words rolling over each other, tumbling faster than he could enunciate them.

“Groot, don’, don’ answer, don’ answer her—‘esides, this, uh, this doesn’t hur—OW, ow, _ow_ —nnngggh— _okay, it hurts, ithurtsal **ot**_ —butnoGrootdon’tanswerher, I don’ want you t— _ughh_ —“

The small thing pounded the screen with both fists. _**“I!am!GROOT!”** _ it shouted. Hela spared it a condescending little smile.

And cut just a little deeper through Star-Lord’s ear.

“What’s it saying?” she asked.

Yondu’s boy had guts, she’d give him that.

“He—he’s saying—that—that he—is—Groot—AGH—“

“What does it _mean_?”

“I, uh, don’t—rrrggh, I don’t know—“

“Give it your best guess.”

The boy cracked one eye open and tried rolling it back at her.

“Offhand, he—he wants to impale you through the neck, whack you into about fifty walls, drop your battered corpse into a scenic ravine on Rentar, and then light what’s _left_ on _fire_ —but that’s just a guess, though—NGHH, RGH, STOPPIT ALREADY!”

“I! AM! GROOT! I am Groot, I am Groot! I am _Grooooot_!”

“It’s crying now. And that sounded like an actual answer.”

“Could have—been—might not have been, though—don’ know for sure, I don’t—nghuhuh, stoppit, _pleaz_ , stoppit—“

“What did it _say_?”

A sharp whistle cut through the twig’s steadily rising shrieks and the boy’s grunts of pain. Another voice, low and rough with anger.

“Still goin’ after littl’ ones, ah see.”

Hela looked up to see a very familiar face staring back at her from the comm screen.

Furious red eyes glared back into her violet ones.

Hela smiled.

“Udonta.” she said calmly. “It’s been awhile.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to all my lovely readers, you! I Sorry this has taken awhile. Real life sort of surfaced, chomped down on my torso, and then pulled me in/dragged me underwater for awhile. (*Drax voice* Metaphor.) *winces, scratches at back of neck* Eh, to put it a little bit more clearly: Ya know how I was sick? Erm, it kinda got worse. Kinda lots worse. For a bit. 
> 
> *sighs a little, tired but stubborn smile* But, I REFUSE to be beaten by a pesky freaking illness! So I worked on this, instead of letting my sickness stop _everything_ I do. *proudly gives it to you* Ta-da! :) 
> 
> I'll update this as I can. Thank you SO MUCH for reviews and kudos--they make my DAY. I quite literally treasure each and every one of them, and keep them close at hand to encourage me in further writing endeavors. Now you all get out there and have a great day! <3 <3


	6. Peter: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kree fanatics sure put a lot of time and effort into preparing for that sacrificial ritual. It'd be a shame if something...._happened_...to it...
> 
> aka 
> 
> Peter Pisses Off the Kree with Predicable Results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might have one of my favorite beaten-but-not-broken badass Peter moments ever, guys. Just sayin.

It was gonna be one of _those_ days again, Peter just knew it.

He strained against Hela’s hold on his ear, trying to get a good look at his dad. It was pretty hard. Hela had forced his neck to bend way more to the side than it was ever meant to go, and the razor sharp knife now slicing half his left ear off wasn’t helping make his day any better. The fact that he’d been captured by one of the worst slavers Peter had ever had the misfortune to meet also shuffled this day into the “already not awesome” list.

Peter liked to think he was a pretty easy going guy, but Kree slavers/fanatics who kidnapped kids _really_ pissed him off on general principle. Yondu’d never liked them either. In fact, Yondu might not have taught Peter much about respecting personal property, or the details of polite society, or even what a speed limit was, but his blue space dad had drilled into him from pretty much day one that RAVAGERS DID NOT BUY OR SELL PEOPLE. Seriously, from day one. Right along with the “YOU BITE ME AGAIN AND I’LL EAT YOU BOYO.” shtick.

Hela cut another inch or so through his ear, suggesting that Yondu _not try anything stupid_ , and Peter’s mind harshly jolted back to the present. He grunted, tried twisting away from her, and all but cried as she twisted his ear again. She looked down at him, the side of her mouth that he could see curving into a cruel, condescending little smile.

“Where do you think you’re going, child?”

“….nowhere…” he said, dejectedly. Well, nuts. Not only was the toxin making him tell the unvarnished truth, but he couldn’t even make his voice sound halfway snarky when he did say it. Frigging alien truth serums.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his dad and his friend. Groot was petrified with fear. Yondu was white with it. And with rage.

Dammit, Peter _**hated**_ it when people were hurt because of him.

Another twist to his ear. Hela’s voice—which might have almost sounded sweet, a few decades and immeasurable lifestyle choices ago—sounded uncomfortably close.

“Are you afraid of me?”

When it came, his own voice was very small. “…yeah.”

Peter didn’t know why he felt so _stupid_ admitting it. Hela was one of the worst Kree slavers out there. The last time he’d run into her, he’d still been running with Yondu and the Ravagers. Yondu’s crew and Hela’s men had exchanged looks, then words.

And projectile missiles.

And fatalities.

Hell, he still had a scar on his shoulder from where Hela’s throwing knife had narrowly missed his carotid artery. The skin over her left ear was puckered, the burn scar from his laser pistol stretching the dark blue skin tight against her skull, the ugly mark running far back into her silver-streaked hair.

And it looked like things would get a lot worse before this day was over.

If he ever made it that far.

Because, contrary to popular opinion, Peter wasn’t stupid. He knew what a sacrificial Kree chamber looked like. ( _Literal_ blood baths, what the _hell._ ) And he knew what they always did to the poor sucker they strapped into that sacrificial chair-harness-thing.

He’d hoped he could destroy the damn thing when he’d flown in here. But failing that, he’d wanted to keep Hela’s attention focused on him, draw off resources from the countless prison ships where they’d been keeping their young captives. The Kree had been accumulating kids for weeks, getting ready to march them into this very chamber and christen this new murder-flagship with some-stupid-murder-name—

“—could witness the christening of my new ship.” Hela was saying. Honestly, did she get her lines from a Villain’s Manual or something? Geez. He tried saying as much, but his mouth wouldn’t say the words he wanted it to. Stupid torturous truth toxin.

“… _I_ don’ wanna hear what it is.” he managed. She cut his ear again. “Ow.”

“It will be named….” Pause for dramatic effect. “The Starkiller.”

Peter saw his father’s jaw tighten. For his part, he swallowed hard. “Pretty sure that’s already a name.” he tried, weakly.

Hela’s voice, colder now. “Not a name given by me.”

Another cut. More blood, running down his neck. “Eh, true. Also, _ow_.”

Don’t let her win. Buy the others time, dammit, Peter, think, think how you can keep her talking, and how you can beat this damn toxin—wait a sec, yeah, there’s an idea—piss her off by nit-picking true but unimportant details, that’s it—

“But—b—but—you s—still—haven’t actually n—n—named your ship—y—yet.”

Hela’s grip, getting harder. He hadn’t known it could. OW. He really hoped he could still listen to his Zune if he only had one ear. But maybe Tullk could put this one back on. With like, tape, or glue, or something. He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

She hissed into what remained of his ear, but he knew she was also looking up at his dad, a shark-like smile playing across her features. Her words weren’t only meant for him.

“Why are you so intent on _dying_ , little Star-Lord?”

Peter gulped in a deep breath, forced himself to count to two, then four, then five. He tried telling the truth toxin burning through his bloodstream that he wasn’t lying, or not going to tell the truth. He was just _waiting_ to do it. He was just _avoiding_ telling her anyth—

_—Unggghh--_

—ohhh, man, the toxin did _not_ like that—

He forced himself not to scream, grunted instead. “N—n—not intent on _dyin_.” He rasped. Managed another two and a half seconds.

“Intent on _distractin_.” he wheezed.

Footfalls behind him, crashing into the sacrificial chamber. A Kree’s voice, stammering out something about all the sacrifices disappearing simultaneously—

—and sound suddenly burst from the other side of the screen, the sound of many young voices and shrill crying swelling out from the room behind Yondu—and his friends’ voices came through as well—

—they’d materialized in the massive teleportation room Kraglin and the rest of the Ravagers had hastily cobbled together—

—Because, well, Peter and his friends hadn’t _ever_ thought they could fit _that_ many kids on the _Milano_. The Guardians had only been the small strike force sent to infiltrate Hela’s fleet, and set up the necessary tech to beam the kids out to the Eclector, and then from there back to Xandar—

—it had worked—

—for _once_ their plan had _actually **worked**_ —

—except for the part where Peter got captured and probably smooshed to death in an ugly murder chair, that part hadn’t worked out so hot—

—but still—

—all things considered—

—Peter ignored Hela’s furious shouting and instead focused on the screen as best he could.

If this was the last time he got to see his family, he wanted to use every minute of it.

From his tilted position, he caught a glimpse of Gamorra’s bloodspattered face, Nebula’s wide, dark eyes, Drax’s arm, and one of Rocket’s portable missile launchers.

_“Guys!”_ he found himself chirping happily. “You all made it out in one piece! I’m so _**glad!** ”_

A horrified gasp from Gamorra, a low curse from Rocket. His small furry friend pointed a trembling paw at the screen.

“Dammit Quill, I know we _really_ needed that distraction, but you weren’t supposed to get _caught_! Ya dast _**IDIOT**_!”

Hela suddenly punching him in the face for some reason, splitting his lip. What was that for. Oh, right, she was probably real pissed about losing all her sacrifices in one fell swoop. Oh well. Peter ignored her, he was still talkin to his friends.

“—thorrry, thorry, thorry, guys—thorry Gammy, Yondu—but, but, but I _am_ _**really**_ glad you guyth are okay! An’ thith isth’t _tho_ bad, I had worthe on Ego, remember? Owth—“

“YER NOT SUPPOSED TO JOKE ABOUT GETTIN TORTURED, QUILL! NOT WHEN WE’RE NOT THERE TA HELP YA! WE MADE A RULE ABOUT THAT, IT MAKES GAMMY TWITCHY!”

“—thorry,” Peter slurred again, “—thorry, thorry, _thupid_ truth tothin. But I _am_ reel glad yew guys ‘re—okay—and that the kidth are thafe—hey, why ith’nt Drath talkin?”

Drax, uncharacteristically, was completely silent. But a brief glimpse of the Destroyer’s chalk-white face and horrified eyes made Peter’s stomach flip over uneasily.

Uh-oh. That truth toxin was coming back up. The way it had the last two times. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and thought quickly. If he whipped his head around just a little—

Hela bit back a shriek of absolutely infuriated rage and glared poisonously at him. Her grip shook on his mostly-severed ear. Come to think of it, the pain from that was also making Peter dizzy. Oh well. At least that freaking toxin was out of his stomach now.

He knew he looked awful, but he grinned up at her anyway, deliberately keeping his eyes away from the pile of puke scattered on the floor at her feet, and, best of all, the part spattered all over her most _definitely_ stained ceremonial, sacrificial boots. He cleared his throat a little, spat the rest up at her furiously frozen face for good measure.

Vomit.

It had more uses than you’d think.

And his voice was back. Kind of. YES. It was nice to have something be working, for once.

“Awww, and yew jutht had thothe bootth thanded and cleaned. Thorry, thcary lady.”

As he spoke, Peter gleefully noted that his classic power of snarky smartass-ed-ness was back and going strong.

True, he still felt like absolute _crap_. Most truth serums did that to him. This one worse than others he’d run into. Probably because truth serums outside of Earth’s orbit had never been intended—or designed—for use on Terrans. Ego’s active Celestial gene had probably helped bolster Peter’s natural immune system for the last twenty or so years—while the homicidal maniac planet had still been alive, that is. Now that his crazy Celestial sire was gone…Peter was just…Terran.

Which, turned out, meant he was even _more_ susceptible to gettin hurt. Or to depressingly mundane (but no less deadly) things like severe allergic reactions.

Greeeeaaat.

So, honestly, he really didn’t feel that good. He might have been granted a—very temporary—reprieve, but from the way the room was spinning, and with the painful pressure building in his ears, he thought he was in for a pretty miserable and possibly lethal time of it in the near future.

Oh, and on top of everything else, his eyes felt like they were melting.

So that was fun.

But he forced himself to look on the positive side. If Hela bashed his head in now, he wouldn’t have to feel that shitty for very much longer.

(Huh. Come to think of it, he’d seen better bright sides.)

Annnnnnd now Hela was talking again. Ugh, why’d the bad guys always wanta talk so much. Askin somethin about if _he wanted ta say anything else to his allies before the end._

Peter’s forehead furrowed in weary irritation.

Ugh, what sort of question _was_ that. Of course he wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Gamora that he loved her, and that she was a really, really good dancer, and to remind Groot to listen to Rocket (except about building bombs in the kitchen), and reassure Mantis that Drax would always take care of her, and wish Nebula and Kraglin the best, and tell Yondu that he’d been a pretty awesome space dad, his dumb decades-long joke about eating him for dinner notwithstanding.

But he didn’t want to say anything _now_. The truth toxin’d _twist_ it. Make him sound _scared_. Show ‘em how much he _was_ hurt. And he _wasn’t_ going to play Hela’s _stupid_ little _game_ , wasn’t gonna do that to them, wasn’t gonna _hurt_ his _family_ like that.

Peter coughed, then blinked, slowly realizing that both ships were completely quiet now.

And that Hela had released his ear and stepped back, smiling. Peter stared at her, then blinked again, more sluggishly, this time, and turned his head to focus on the screen in front of him.

Gamora was crying silently. So was Rocket. And Groot—a little less silently, but still crying.

Yondu wasn’t crying. But his face had set like stone, and his eyes were bleak and burning.

Nebula was clenching her cybernetic hand so hard the little gears audibly ground together.

And Drax’s face was a sickly, chalky white.

Peter stared back at them for a second, something clicking into place far away in his mind. He swallowed, hard, blinking furiously, and heard Hela step up beside him again.

Without meaning to, words slurred out of him.

“I sai’ all’ tha’ out loud, didn’ I.”

Hela’s purr was an audible smile. “Yes. Yes you did.”

Peter grimaced and turned his head as much as he could to glare at her. Everything had started to feel disconnected, his thoughts and movements lagging, glitching, no longer fully in sync with each other.

“Tha’s jutht’ _mean_.” he said reproachfully, feeling a distant surge of anger at the smirk in her hard purple eyes. “Yu—you really are—a terrible persth—“

He stopped speaking. Of course, of course _now_ that his family was _hurting_ , he had _stopped_ speaking. But this time—this time he hadn’t wanted to.

But all at once there’d been this sudden, awful pressure near his heart.

It didn’t hurt, exactly.

But he couldn’t really—breathe.

Which was really weird. Cuz he’d been breathing just friggin _fine_ a few seconds before.

Peter coughed a little, then frowned, tried looking down. The collar wouldn’t let him.

Voices, far away. Screaming.

Peter grimaced, tried twisting his wrists and shifting his shoulders so he could shrug off this stupid stone collar, get his hands free, get out of this murder-chair-thing, and see what the hell had hit him in the chest.

He couldn’t. Get up. Or out.

Hm. That wasn’t—wasn’t helpful.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hela, smiling, make a mocking, spreadeagled little bow back towards the screen. Her hands glinted red in the pale light of the Kree ship. Her skin was supposed to be blue, so where’d she get that much red, Peter wondered.

Movement on the screen caught the corner of his eye. Yondu’d taken a step forward. Or maybe it was Gamora.

He couldn’t tell.

It was really hard to see.

His vision was blurring, going black at the edges. He swallowed, hard, tried asking what was going on.

No luck.

His mind wandered. Where’d Hela’s ceremonial knife go, he wondered. She’d had it when they’d forced him into the murder-chair-thing. She’d been using it to cut into his ear. But she didn’t have it anymore. Her hands, the long, elegant fingers splayed wide in a gesture of easy confidence, were empty.

But they were red. And drip—

Oh.

God.

Oh.

_**Shit.** _

Ohshitohshitohshitoh ** _shit_** —

—It got even harder to breathe, now—

—then everything started to fade, his panic, his fear, even the pain started to drown in the burning blackness stealing over everything—

With the fading strength remaining to him, Peter tried to keep his head up, tried squinting through the darkness stealing over his senses. He wanted to look at his family for as long as he could.

But it was too hard.

He couldn’t even do that anymore.

Now he was just stuck looking at the floor.

Stupid floor. Stupid, ugly, cold, dark, ugly floor.

Hela’s voice, high and cold above his head.

“—should thank you, Udonta, for making sure he survived into adulthood. The boy’s unique Celestial lineage is most helpful. His lifeblood will christen my flagship. It will just take a little longer than usual.”

Yondu snarled something in Centaurian and Kree combined. Hela’s laugh hurt almost worse than her knife had.

“Haven’t you _eyes_? I stabbed him in the _lung_ , you illiterate fool. He’ll die, certainly, but he won’t be doing it anytime _soon_.”

Agony started twisting through the numbness in Peter’s chest. Darkness reached out, froze his voice, gripped him in icy, grasping claws. He started to fall away.

Then the pain near his heart increased, snatching him out of the void. A cold, cruel voice, simultaneously distant and chillingly close by.

“No last words, little Star-Lord?”

The pressure twisted further, flickering into burning pain. The voice continued, merciless and mocking. “I’m sure you want them to come save you. Isn’t that _true_?”

And, against all odds, Peter found his voice.

_**“NO!”** _

The other voice stopped short and said, “…what?” in a flat tone. Horribly, painfully, Peter sucked in a breath and thanked every deity he’d ever thought existed that the leftover truth toxin trickling through his veins still had some life left in it. Otherwise he wasn’t sure if he could have mustered the energy for this last message.

“Noooo, no, nonono _no_ —” he wheezed. He managed to force his head up and looked at the screen again, squinting towards the nearest blue smear on it. He wanted to be looking at Yondu when he said this next part.

He thought that the blue smear was Yondu.

But it could have been Nebula, except Nebula didn’t have Yondu’s telltale red fin on her head—

—unless she’d gotten a hat or something, but that was a _stupid_ thought, Nebula didn’t _like_ hats, so he _was_ looking at his dad, and he _had_ to make sure he said this last thing before he—before he—before Hela—

“—no, no, _no_ ,” he gasped, his voice cracking, “—no, Dad, don’ come, don’ let ‘em—“

His vision cleared for a moment and he saw Yondu’s eyes widen. Peter blinked away something hot welling up in his. Had he never called Yondu “Dad” before? Oh, maybe he hadn’t. Well—whatever—now wasn’t the time to think about that—

“— _Dad_ , don’t, don’t, pleaz, don’ come, an’ don’t let ‘em come, she’ll kill all of you, she told me so, she laughed about it before she called you, pleaz—“

Hela swore, frustration beginning to break through her bewilderment. “You _cannot_ be in _earnest_ —”

Peter didn’t even glance her way, his whole being intent on the screen in front of him, on making sure his dad understood him. It was so, _so_ important that Hela not hurt or kill _anyone_ else today. _Especially_ not anyone Peter loved.

It just couldn’t happen. Not ever. Especially not over him.

They’d rescued all the kids, they were all safe, the mission was complete. It wouldn’t make sense to come charging back here just for one stupid schmuck who was literally dying anyway.

But Peter knew his crew, his friends, his family. He knew they’d fly straight into an exploding star to save him, and that right now, he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them.

But his Dad could.

Peter’d just have to get him to promise.

“—Dad, _pleaz_ —“

Oh, great, he was starting to _cry_ now, way to make a good impression on the Kree, Pete, cry like you’re freaking six years old again—some Star-Lord you are—

—friggin truth serums—

—but Dad’s gotta promise, Dad’s gotta stay safe and keep everybody else safe too—

Peter gulped and fought on.

“—you gotta, you gotta, promiz, Dad—don’ come, an’ don’ le’ them come—it’z too dangerouz—she’s settin traps, and—and stuff—there’z no way it’d work— ** _Dad, pleaz_** —“

Before he finished speaking, Peter realized it was useless. His father’s face had gone blank, his eyes expressionless and unreadable.

Peter knew that look. And he screamed, half in despair, half in terrified rage. He felt his throat beginning to tear.

_“DAD!! NO!! YOU CAN’T DO IT!!”_

Yondu said nothing.

Not refusing.

But not promising anything either.

**_“DAD!!!”_** Peter shrieked, his voice cracking.

Then Hela’s voice, snarling, was right by his ear. The pain in his chest twisted suddenly, _awfully_ , once, twice, three times. Peter’s eyes rolled back into his head and his voice failed him as his mind forgot what words were. Burning agony shot through him as dark sparks exploded through his vision, and it seemed to Peter that he was suddenly falling backwards into a horrible, rushing tunnel, down into deep black waters that closed over his head, drowned out all light and sound. Buuuut not the pain.

Because obviously.

The universe wasn’t that nice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your well wishes guys! This story isn't over yet, and I'll be sure to update it as I can. :) Thank you _so much_ for your reviews! They make my day!! <3 <3


	7. Peter: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth serums are the worst. Like, by a LOT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Update! Sorry it's a little shorter than usual--explanation at end of chapter notes ;) Enjoy!

When Peter woke up, he really wished he hadn’t.

In fact, he wasn’t altogether sure if he could actually qualify as being “awake”. For one thing, his eyes wouldn’t really open, no matter how hard he tried to make them. What light there was about him hurt his eyes, even through their closed lids, and the blood in his ears pounded painfully in time with his heart. His head felt heavy and light all at the same time, and his thoughts kept crumbling apart before they were fully formed. He could feel beads of sweat beading on his temples, but he didn’t feel hot, exactly. But his eyes _did_ feel like they were burning in their sockets. Which made everything else feel off balance, somehow.

Egh, his eyes _hurt_. Everything hurt. Everything _ached_ and everything _hurt_.

Ohhhhh, right. _Fever_. This was what fever felt like. Peter tried to remember how he’d gotten this sick, but even that thin line of thinking drained what little energy he had. Peter didn’t like this situation, realized he was grimacing. Reluctantly, he decided that maybe he should try and do something about this. Get up, or at least open his eyes. Since just letting the fever—especially one this bad—simply run its course probably wasn’t going to do him any favors.

He readied himself and tensed, tried to open one eye. That hurt. A lot. But he did catch a brief flicker of movement, and his fuzzy hearing picked up a snatch of sound.

Oh, good. Someone else was here, then. Peter hated being sick with an almost (no pun intended) unhealthy passion, but he hated being alone _so_ much more. Whoever-it-was was now saying something in a quiet voice, their cool fingers brushing briefly through his hair, moving soothingly over his uncomfortably aching scalp. That felt nice. Comforting.

They were long fingers, graceful fingers. Probably Gamora. Definately not Drax. Or Rocket. Or Groot. (The lack of twiggy bits breaking off was a dead giveaway for the last one.) Tension he didn’t know he’d been holding eased out of his shoulders as he leaned a little into the touch. The voice gave a short laugh, sounding amused. Peter felt a sense of almost dizzy relief wash over him in turn. He was sick, but he wasn’t alone. Not alone. That was good. Peter let his eye slide shut again, and his mind wandered.

This was a lot like that one time out in the Gamma Quadrant. He’d gotten sick—crazy sick, dangerously sick, as it turned out—but it’d been a hard job and a dangerous one, battling a crazed band of mercenaries. The Guardians had been pretty busy, so he’d visited a few market kiosks, sucked it up, and kept swallowing pills until the job was over and he had the time to worry about something minor like a cough and a slightly elevated temperature. That’d been his plan, anyway.

And his plan had worked just fine. Until he’d missed _one_ dose of meds due to an inconvenient ambush and a frantic retreat through a quantum asteroid field. After he’d piloted the Milano away from certain death, he’d handed the controls to Rocket, clapped Drax on the back saying something about how well the big guy’d used the gun turrets, and then promptly missed his footing on the ladder leading down to the living quarters of the _Milano_. Which was where his girlfriend and a hysterical baby tree found him in a state of choking, delirious incomprehensibility.

Gamora had given him hell about that for _three straight weeks_.

Peter guiltily thought he was due for another tongue-lashing. He didn’t know how he’d gotten this sick this fast _again_ , but the least he could was apologize. He tried to explain that he hadn’t meant it this time either, and that he was _really_ sorry for freaking them out like that again.

But then Peter realized two things.

One, was that he couldn’t apologize.

Literally, couldn’t.

Because something thick and heavy had been tightly stuffed into his mouth, wadded in hard between his teeth and over his tongue. It smothered any words—or sounds—he might have made. Oh, and, minor note, it was making it very hard to breathe. And something else, something thin and strong and cruelly tight was holding the gag in place, and was tied so tightly behind his head that it felt as if the knot—yeah that's what it was—it felt like the knot was pressing half an inch into his already throbbing skull. So he definitely wasn’t on a ventilator. (Although he hated those too.)

There’d been a handful of times when he’d woken up on those fraking machines, but a member of his team had always been there to a) be close by when he woke up, b) catch or grab anything he threw or flipped in those first few seconds, and c) profusely apologize to whatever medical staff were in the room at the time. But they weren’t here now.

Which led to the second thing.

Two. It certainly wasn’t Gamora talking to him. Or Drax, or Rocket, or Groot, or Mantis, or Nebula, or Yondu, or Kraglin, or—

—or anyone he knew.

No, wait. He did know her. He just didn’t like her. At all.

And she didn’t like him. The fingers running through his hair were much too harsh and way too rough and she was _not_ saying anything _nice_.

Ohhhhhhh right, Hela, _Hela_ was the one who had him. _Stupid_ , Peter, mistaking _Hela_ for _Gamora_. Ew, _**yuck** , alone_ is better than _Hela, so much freaking better_ , augh, geez, you’re an _idiot_ , Peter Quill. Waitasec, if Hela had him, but wasn’t talking to him, then who was she talking—

The priestess’ promise to skin his friends alive in front of him shot through his memory, and Peter’s eyes flew open to see the Kree’s violet ones not ten inches from his own. Peter fought back the urge to throw up—again—and jerked his head back with a grunt, instinctively trying to get away. 

Since he was still stuck in the murder chair, the weak attempt failed.

Gods _dammit_. 

Peter snarled as best he could though the gag. The effort nearly choked him, and he felt angry tears of frustration sluggishly well up in his aching eyes. Hela saw them and laughed, reaching out a strong, scarred hand. 

Peter closed his eyes and shuddered as her thumb swiped the tears away. Evil Kree slaver kooties aside, her long, curved nails had been too close, way, way, waaaaaaaaaay too close to his eyes for comfort.

 _Definitely_ too close. Ohhhhh God. Ohhhhhh God. The room’s spinning. It’s all on one side. But don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Breathe, breathe, breathe, don’t pass out. Okay, she’s stepping back. Okay. Okay. Holy _shit._ So close to his _eyes_. Okay. Okay. Pull it _together_ , Pete.

Peter gathered his wits back from where they had scattered, deliberated on his (admittedly limited) options for defiant smartassery, and settled back on his classic fall-back option. He gave her the finger. With both hands.

Belatedly, he realized Hela couldn’t see it, since his hands were still more or less welded together behind his back in the stupid murder gauntlets. But he made the motion anyway.

It was the principle of the thing.

But Hela wasn’t looking at him now. She was talking to someone else. Peter huffed painfully through his nose. Geez, not even paying attention to the guy you stabbed in the lungs not ten minutes ago.

_Rude._

Then Hela was turning to look at him, and he instinctively shrank away from the knowledge that he was, in actual fact, _scared_ out of his _mind_ , suffering _mind-numbing pain_ , and, worst of all, _terrified_ at the thought of painfully dying far away from any help or comfort.

Hela smiled at him. It was not a nice smile.

“You really do wish he’d come to help you.” she said, her voice as sympathetic as a snake’s. “You really do wish your friends were here.”

Peter scoffed at that and shook his head emphatically.

That’d been his plan, at any rate.

Then he realized he was weakly nodding instead. And that Yondu—the only one left on the bridge of the Eclector, where this whole stupid videoscreen call had started—well, his dad looked like someone had used his chest for yaka arrow practice.

Peter seethed with frustrated fury, shot a hateful look up at Hela. If he could have ground his teeth, he would have.

 _Gods **damn**_ truth toxin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for being so patient. I'm trying to work on the rest of the story, but recently real life has been...increasingly difficult, health-wise. *tired look* Buuuuut I'm getting to see a doctor today who can hopefully help. *slightly nervous smile* Till next time you guys! Love ya all!


	8. Peter: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo guess which major canon plot point I realized I hadn't covered in Peter Quill and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day? 
> 
> AKA
> 
> All the Feels
> 
> Thank you for your patience, my lovely readers! Enjoy this latest update!!

Hela hid a smile as the boy glared at her over the gag, black hatred boiling in his eyes. Truth be told, she rather enjoyed this side of her job. The truth toxin was useful in more ways than one. It tore down so many walls, ripped so many layers away from various souls. If nothing else, it made for a remarkably quick character study of whichever foe she could get her hands on.

Take this child, for example. She’d always considered Ronan’s defeat a lamentable (if darkly humorous) accident. Even now, she still had difficulty taking his downfall seriously. Ronan the Accuser, cleanser of a dozen systems, wielder of an Infinity Stone, messily vaporized by a thief, an assassin, a maniac, and two thugs. Not to mention the raggedy bunch of space scum led by a scruffy former slave that’d helped the aforesaid gaggle of misfits survive the encounter.

But perhaps there was more to the motley group than she’d thought. If the boy was any indication.

Hela narrowed her own eyes, seeing, for just a moment, the dark, unsettling fire that burned deep inside the one they called the Star-Lord. It was buried very far down, and she only caught a glimpse of it, but she did wonder what he might be like if it was ever truly provoked or untapped.

Then her eyes moved to the hilt of the ceremonial knife still sticking out of his side.

She shrugged.

Oh well. It looked like no one would ever know.

She smirked a little and turned her gaze back to the screen. Udonta was still watching every movement of hers, his dark red eyes hooded like a snake’s.

She laughed a little at the look on his face. “I don’t know why you’re looking so upset.” she said, mildly amused. “I never get that worked up over a mark.” She shrugged a little. “This isn’t personal, Udonta.”

(For the record, she was lying. It _was_ deeply personal. She’d hated Yondu’s cowardly guts for years, and he’d hated her gods-sent mission for just as long. But the important thing was to string the red-eyed idiot along. He thought he was such a good distraction, sending his pathetic group of children away. Clearly the little ones were even now mounting a counter attack with the fatally optimistic goal of saving their friend from his unimaginable pain. Idiots. Once she had them, Star-Lord would _beg_ for the comparative mercy of a sucking chest wound. But all that in good time.)

Hela continued to talk. “The galaxy needs to be cleansed of lower life forms. This one—“ she nudged her bloody prisoner a little—“keeps getting in the way. Oh, you can stop _glaring_ at me.” she snapped up at Udonta, real irritation sliding its way into her voice. The intensely set look in his eyes was beginning to grate on what was left of her sense of justice. “At the end of the day, you and I aren’t so different.”

She tilted her chin up into the air, gestured at the Terran with one of her dripping hands. “The only real difference is that _I_ do what I _believe_ in. _You_ just do the job to get _paid_.”

Yondu’s expression flattened.

Hela pressed her advantage home, indicating the boy behind her with a flick of her head. “That is the reason you abducted him from Terra, isn’t it? You were hired to take him. To deliver him to his father. Like you did with Ego’s other children.”

From behind her, a thin, short, mocking little huff. Hela whipped her head around in time to see her prisoner raise one tired, bloody eyebrow at her in a _Really?_ sort of way. Then he shot a conspiratorial look towards Udonta, as if to say, _pffft, can you **believe** this crap?_

The boy stopped short at the look on Yondu’s face. All the color drained out of his own, and his disbelieving expression slowly deepened into one of dawning horror as Yondu still didn’t disprove her point.

Hela stopped short, looked between the two of them. Her violet eyes widened slightly.

“Oh.” She said, slowly at first, then, with deepening delight, “ _Oh._ He _didn’t_ know, did he?”

Her sharp gaze flicked from Yondu’s bleak expression to the boy’s crumpling one.

“Oh, _my_.” she said, not even trying to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “He really didn’t know. You never told him. And what a time to find out. Poor little Star-Lord.”

The boy’s expression twisted even further as he looked at Udonta, some sort of light dying out of his eyes. He blinked, once, twice, hard. Shook his head a little. Then turned his head and glared hard at Hela, growling. Hela looked inquisitively at him and cocked her head to the side. He tried again. Hela frowned. It sounded faintly like _“—er iiii—ing.”_

Hela nodded in pleased comprehension, then smiled brightly at him. “I assure you, I am not lying.” she said sweetly.

His eyes slitted even further, as though by narrowing his vision he could avoid the truth for even a moment longer. _“—eg u **argeh**.”_ he tried again. Hela tried to hide a smile, and failed miserably.

“No, I am not.” she assured him.

The boy started to look downright sick. He drew in another breath through his nose, shook his head harder now, faster, and tried gurgling something else through the gag—but Udonta’s dull voice broke in on their one-sided conversation.

“She’s—she’s not lyin, boyo.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and his face paled even further as he turned back to stare at the screen. He looked like he’d been stabbed. Again. Hela opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Yondu was doing all the telling himself. She could have presented it her own way, but in the end, it did not matter. Very well. Let the once-exiled Ravager try and exonerate himself in his adopted son’s eyes. It made no difference in the end.

Either way, the truth would break the boy.

Udonta’s voice was surprisingly spiritless. Given that it sounded like it came from a dead man, Hela supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised.

“…was gunna tell ya, Pete. Back there when we got you off Ego. But with you near dyin on me…it, uh, it did slip my mind. And after that, I couldn’t—mmm, didn’t—didn’t want ta tell ya. Couldn’t find the right time. But I suppose there’s no right time ta tell ya somethin like that. ‘M sorry, son.”

Udonta took another breath, then barreled on, obviously steeling himself against the look in the boy’s eyes. Hela’d seen it hundreds of times before. Someone trying to finish a horrid task, and finish it quickly.

“I won’t lie ta ya. It’d hurt worse that way. I did it, and I ain’t proud of it. Mat’r of fact, I’ll see those kids’ faces every night until the day I die.”

He paused, looked quickly at his son. The boy couldn’t even blink. Just stared, stared, _stared_ at him. Yondu grimaced and went on.

“—was stupid, careless, wanted ta get rich quick, and didn’t ask too many questions. Told myself I was just pickin em up for their dad. They didn’t have no families, none I knew of anyway. But then I started gettin…eh. Suspicious. And once I figured out what that bastard was doin, I never took no kids back to him. Others did, though. That’s why I took you. You were the last one, an’ if I didn’t take you off Terra, someone else would have. And they’d have taken you to Ego. I…I couldn’t let that…let that happen. Not again.”

Hela didn’t bother to hide her smile at the crushed look on Udonta’s face. The old pirate broke off for a minute, his jaw working suspiciously hard and his eyes far too bright as they fixed on his son.

“…’m….real sorry, Peter.”

Hela threw back her head and laughed outright at the broken, empty expression in the Star-Lord’s eyes. She enjoyed victories, even the easy ones.

And Hela _knew_ she’d won when the light died out of her target’s eyes like that, when the only thing left separating them from the dead was a heartbeat.

Udonta had all but done her work for her.

Sometimes things were almost too easy. She was enjoying herself so much, she didn’t even mind being ignored by the pair she was tormenting. All she’d had to do was set the wheels in motion, and step away.

It was delightful.

And the power was simply intoxicating.

But Udonta was still talking, his voice gaining a shade of its old bark. “Peter? Peter. _Peter_. Don’t you give up, yew hear?”

The boy’s shoulders had slumped. His dimming gaze had slid down to the floor and stayed there, his head hanging from the thick collar, all his faint reserves of energy drained away. A couple of tiny glints dripped down from his eyes, flecked off the collar, speckled the stone floor.

Udonta swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from his son’s bowed head. He locked his gaze on Hela again.

“The boy ain’t a part of this.” He said simply, his jaw set, his voice grim. “Yer quarrel’s with me. You want to hurt _me_.”

Hela smiled at the screen, showing all of her thin, needle-sharp teeth. “Oh, Yondu Udonta, but I _am_.”

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and tilted the boy’s chin back up towards the screen. Smiling, she ran the curved sickle-claw that acted as her thumb along the boy’s face, caressing it over his cheekbone in a way that would have been intimately kind and reassuring…if she hadn’t pressed down, hard, and made a long, thin cut along it as she went.

Udonta’s eyes flattened at the sight, and he pressed his lips hard together. His eyes burned like scarlet fires, and Hela congratulated herself once again on making sure miles of dark and empty space separated her from the dangerous Ravager captain. Udonta was a formidable opponent with hundreds of kills on his record, but she was far away from both his lethal yaka arrow and his vengeance. And, most importantly, she had the flaw in his armor. She would break both of them yet.

Speaking of which.

The boy hadn’t even reacted to her last attack. Not even a little bit.

Hela frowned slightly at that, pulled her hand back and studied him narrowly. The boy’s dark-rimmed eyes were half-closed, and when she looked closer at them, it seemed they were looking at something far off in the distance. She tried to remember the little she knew of Terran biology—hopefully he hadn’t died yet—and was relieved to see that his chest was still rising and falling. If not very evenly.

She glanced back at Undonta, whose attention, after a brief, intensely murderous glance at her, had instantly gone back to the boy.

“Boyo.” He said sternly. “Don’t you give up. Don’t you do that to yer friends.”

Just then, as if on cue, explosions, roars, screams, and the sound of very many people dying very quickly rang throughout Hela’s ship.

Hela resisted the instinctive urge to jump, and instead snapped out several orders to her surrounding officers. She knew this eventuality might happen, and had planned accordingly.

That _was_ the point of setting a _trap_ , after all.

The boy’s eyes shot fully open. It was hard to look simultaneously hopeful and betrayed, but the look he shot at Udonta conveyed both of those conflicting emotions in one sudden glance.

Hela snorted disdainfully and twisted the boy’s chin back to look at her. "You really think I haven’t prepared for this?” she sneered.

The boy’s eyes were no longer blank. Their previous fire had flickered, then blazed back into life. He glared scornfully at her, then jerked his head out of her grip.

Hela let him go, reaching for the other ceremonial dagger hung at her side as more shouts and screams echoed through the chamber. There was a sudden burst of sound as the doors on the far end of the chamber burst open. Hela looked up, a brief flicker of worry jabbing through her despite herself. Then she laughed.

“Bring them here.” she ordered.

With some difficulty, her men obeyed.

At her side, the boy’s defiance vanished. In fact, he seemed to go a little mad. Her prisoner screamed and strained, even though both his attempts at action were utterly futile.

What an _idiot_.

Hela ignored him. Her focus was on the large grey tattooed maniac and the green-skinned assassin currently being dragged towards her.

They were dropped, rather unceremoniously, at her feet. Hela studied them for a moment, considering.

“Where are the others?” she asked. Her chief officer bowed, panting and clutching at his heavily bleeding arm. “Surrounded in the lower cargo bay, my lady. They will be overwhelmed soon.” Hela glanced back at the Star-Lord and spared Udonta’s son a thin smile.

Then she flicked her other ceremonial knife into her hand and threw a scornful glance up at the screen.

“Anything you’d like to say to your son, Udonta?” she asked, condescension dripping from her words. “Your pathetic little plan to distract me failed, and now his friends will die—“ here she half-twirled the knife, pointing it towards the girl—“and do it rather badly. You will be the last to die, I think.” This last observation was directed at the boy, who was so busy hyperventilating and staring at his friends that he didn’t even look at her. Hela hissed in displeasure, and flicked out with her knife again. The grey tattooed ex-gladiator gave a low rumble of displeasure as the blade drew a thin line of blood from the other side of the boy’s face. The girl snarled. The boy, for his part, whipped his head around and glared at her. If blazing looks promising awful, blazing death could melt fire-forged metal, his would have done so.

Hela had seen scores of such looks before. They no longer concerned her. She continued on. “When all this is over, I’ll bathe the star-ways in your blood.” she said, her tone almost pleasant. She flicked her eyes back to the screen.

“As I was saying. Any last words to the child?” Her mouth quirked, almost forgotten laughter welling up from somewhere dark. “Another apology, perhaps?”

The figure on the screen considered, tilting his head to one side.

“Mmmm. Nah.”

Hela’s smile fell off her face. Udonta was a renowned jackass of a Ravager, but even he was far too relaxed for a man whose (adopted yet treasured) son was about to be brutally killed in front of him.

Udonta was still talking.

“—not gunna say none o’ that.”

Udonta’s teeth were beginning to show. In a smile. That was nowhere near his eyes.

That was never good.

“—am gunna say jest one thing, though.”

Hela discovered, to her intense irritation, that she was holding her breath.

“—I wasn’t the distraction, boyo.” Udonta said simply. “They was.” He nodded at the two new kneeling figures. Who were, Hela noted dimly, grinning a little too savagely and a little too widely for prisoners hopelessly caught in a foolproof trap. The boy was looking almost as confused as she felt. But there was a sudden, fierce fire of almost insane hope in his eyes that Hela was very, very, _very_ far away from feeling for herself.

_“Now.”_ Udonta said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. His face was in shadow, his dark scarlet eyes gleaming from the darkness, and he’d drawn himself up to his full height.

Hela swallowed, once. She suddenly remembered just how many assassinations the Centurian had successfully undertaken.

That _voice_ again.

“Yew jest stay right there.”

It wasn’t clear if Udonta was talking to the boy, to his friends…or to her.

Given how quickly the next few things happened, Hela never fully figured it out.

Because almost before Udonta had finished talking, there was a sudden boom that shook the ship underneath her feet. Lights flashed on and off, sirens screamed, and her officers were shouting about a Ravager ship uncloaking just beside them.

Simultaneously, there was a sharp whistle from the screen in front of her, and a thin trail of scarlet light shot into the air, its angry red gleam matching the pulsing fury in Udonta’s eyes. The eyes that were fixed on her.

The trail of light flashed, zipping back into the dark corridors of the Ravager ship. Hela’s sharp ears caught the sound of alarms a few floors away, and a faint hissing sound confirmed that there had, indeed, been a hull breach.

Her ship’s automatic systems kicked in and sealed the tiny hole.

But they could do nothing about what had caused it.

Hela started screaming orders to her officers about defensive positions, moving the prisoners, and living shields, and that the next thing to do was—

\--and all the lights went out.

Hela’s gaze was drawn, almost unwillingly, towards the backup security monitor up near the top corner of the sacrificial chamber. The sputtering screen showed her nothing.

Except a tiny, streaking blaze of scarlet light, slicing its way through her troops almost faster than the eye could see.

Hela watched, horrified, as her entire crew of hand-picked, elite Kree fanatics died in the time it took Yondu Udonta to turn and walk out of his ship.

She tore her eyes away from the images and forced herself to think.

If she finished the ritual, she could have enough power to defeat him. Or at least slow the implacable Centaurian down enough to get away.

Yes.

Finish the ritual.

Kill the boy.

She closed her eyes, muttered a chant that activated dull blue emergency light sconces high up on the walls of the sacrificial chamber. She envisioned the layout of the room. Swiped out with the knife in the flickering semi-darkness. She felt the tip connect with something, heard a sudden, pained intake of breath, and felt something warm and wet spatter out across her wrist in a fine, thin spray.

Then there was a sudden, awful, _vengeful_ pressure around that wrist, and Hela shrieked as she felt the bones snap out of place. She started to draw up the words of an ancient Kree curse, but a strong, graceful, sudden kick to her stomach folded her in half.

Hela snarled and struck out with one clawed hand, back towards the harness, where she knew the boy still hung, sick and trapped and dying.

If she was going to die, she was damn well making sure the boy went with her.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *claps hands together briskly* So, readers! I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter! And the inevitable cliffhanger that came with it! *without losing smile, artfully dance-dodges various candy wrappers and post-its thrown from imploring/hyperventilating crowd* 
> 
> *makes easy, placating motions with hands* It's okay, it's okay! It's okay! Peter will (eventually) be all right! And Yondu and his fatherly relationship with Peter won't be at a standstill forever!! I promise! 
> 
> *Warning: The rest of this note has nothing to do with the story*
> 
> *clears throat a few times, claps hands together again, this time a little less briskly, and looks a less confident* Hey, readers and friends. Um. So. Remember how I told you I was real sick last time? But goin to a doctor's appointment? And how I hoped it would make things better? You were all SO nice and asked after the results! You all really made my day! 
> 
> Sooooo for the actual update. 
> 
> Um, it....
> 
> ...it was good in that it is a good doctor who is very helpful. 
> 
> *clears throat again* Um. 
> 
> It was bad in that we have to try more different approaches to treatment, and we're doing those different approaches, and we're doing all that we can...and it's just...it's real serious, guys, it's a real serious issue that I've had for _such_ a long krutakin time, and it _hurts_, and I--
> 
> \--I'm just so _tired_, guys. 
> 
> I'm so dast _tired_. 
> 
> *shoulders slump, blinks hard, has to clear throat harder trying to think of words, can't, so decides to keep narrating using words and intermittent actions instead* 
> 
> Um, yes. I'm very tired. And, uh, frankly very scared. And, um, I just wanted to let you know that I so much appreciate your support, and your hugs, and your prayers, and your good vibes, whatever it is that you give, and I just erm, *cough cough NOT CRYING* really wanted to tell you all once again that it's really nice to know I'm not alone. You _really help_ me with that. 
> 
> Cuz on some of these days, the awful, painful, dark, bleak days where it seems Ego's sticking glass shards into my freaking brain, it is so _hard_ to remember I'm not alone. 
> 
> And that I can at least write fic that I can share with other people. *hollers defiantly at darkness, old fire coming back for a second* TAKE THAT, YOU FACELESS ABYSS, YOU!!
> 
> *sniffles, scrubs eyes hard* Uhm, so, yes. I'm really grateful to all of you guys. You help remind me that I'm not just a fading, empty echo. Love and hugs to you all.
> 
> *deep breath, gathers self together, gives wry, darkly humorous grin* Long way to say it, but I will update (hopefully) soon <3 <3


	9. Peter: Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together again. 
> 
> And some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quotes Mushu from Mulan, rising up out of smoke* I LIIIIIIIIVE! *pauses, coughs several times, spits politely into a handkerchief* 
> 
> A-hem. Hey guys! Thank you so much for your support! Enjoy the updated chapter!

Drax blocked the last blow with one arm, then knocked the vile Kree witch flying across the room like a child’s toy. He felt absolutely no remorse when she struck the unforgiving wall, thirty feet away, with a dull thud. Or when she crumpled to the ground as if every piece of her had snapped in two.

He did not _care_.

He would have done _worse_ to her, if he had not been so concerned for his friend.

This was the second time he’d been in a chamber such as this.

The first time had been on his homeworld. And it had been the last time he’d seen Hovat. And Camaria.

Ronan had decided that their planet needed cleansing. Through blood sacrifices, of course. He’d tried to use Camaria as one of them.

Hovat and Drax had fought for their child—for all of the children Ronan had taken. After a brutal, bloody battle, where most of the hostages had escaped, Camaria had been snatched back by Ronan. She’d yelled and bit him, hard. Then Drax and his wife charged the monster, one from either side. Just like they'd planned. Drax ran in first, from the right. He’d seen the monster fight before. He was _sure_ the Accuser first swung to his right, crushing his opponents there in an instant. Drax did not _mind_ dying like that. He had made his peace. Hovat had not wanted to accept it, but Drax was more than willing to pay the necessary price. He would buy Hovat time to grab Camaria and escape. Drax would die _knowing_ his wife and child were safe.

As it turned out--

\--on _that_ day--

Ronan swung to the left.

Where Hovat had just grabbed hold of Camaria, just as they’d turned to run.

Ronan laughed as he did it.

Drax did not remember much of what happened after that.

But he did know that Kree fanatics bathed in the blood of their enemies.

And that he _hated_ these chambers.

And he would _not_ let it happen again.

“—ax! Drax?! DRAX!! You can stop, Drax, please, you have to stop! You have to help me help Peter!”

Drax blinked, the red mist clearing from his eyes. He realized he’d been instinctively striding towards Hela, both his knives dripping and out and ready to kill another Kree. He just needed to make _sure_ she was dead. Make sure she could no longer harm Peter.

But Gamora was calling out from behind him, and she sounded almost frantic.

Drax sheathed his knives and leapt over to her side in one swift movement. Then he stared down at his friend.

For a long, horrid moment, he thought Hela had taken Peter’s eyes with the last strike of her knife. Then he realized that the witch had not done so. The blade had cut deep into his friend’s forehead instead, up near his hairline, and it was the dark blood running from that wound down into his eyes that made them seem—uh, seem to be not there.

But Peter was not awake anymore, so Drax could not reassure him on this point. This was unfortunate.

Beside him, Gamora wrestled with the stone collar around Peter’s neck. She seemed determined to break it apart by main force, along with strong language heard only in the roughest bars on Knowhere. Hovat had sworn like that too when she was angry. She’d stopped (mostly) once Camaria was bor—

Drax blinked himself back into the present.

“Peter _still_ has his eyes.” he said earnestly, thinking it somehow very important Gamora realize this and not worry about it. Gamora spared him a brief, strange look, then went back to cursing every Kree workman and his parents—and their parents—in several different tongues.

The sacrificial Kree chamber seemed to close in around him, darkness ebbing in from the past, but Drax blinked again, gritted his teeth. Forced himself to focus on present priorities. His mind hadn’t stopped running a grim mental tally of Peter’s injuries. But they could not minister proper aid to their comrade until they’d removed Peter from the sacrificial Kree harness. Drax’s thick fingers itched to clamp Peter’s ear back against his skull, to rip out the ragged dagger from his friend’s side and hurl it into a void for daring to harm his leader and his brother-in-arms—but that last action was frowned upon by most medical personnel.

First thing to do.

Get Peter out of the harness.

Gamora was still snarling at the collar, fingers running desperately down the sides, the grooves, the back.

“Where’s the release latch?!” she said, her voice almost breaking on a sob. “I can’t—I can’t find the stupid—“

Drax grunted as he took up a position near her side, rapidly casting a quick look over the collar himself.

“There is none.” he said shortly. Gamora shot him a horrified look. Drax ground his teeth. “It is not designed to come off the victim’s _head_.” he said grimly. He found a small flaw in the metal just under Peter’s still intact ear, and took hold of the collar at that point, nodding at the tiny crack.

“Insert your sword into that.” he instructed. “Apply pressure when I tell you to. I will endeavor to break the collar apart that way.”

Gamora swallowed hard, but unsheathed her sword all the same. She took a breath, steadying herself. She raised the sword. Slipped it into the crack.

“Do not allow your grasp to slip.” Drax advised. “If you do, you will almost certainly cut off Peter’s head.”

Gamora went slightly more green at that.

But they managed to get Peter free from the sacrificial harness all the same.

Mostly.

As it turned out, the collar had, more or less, held Peter upright.

But the gauntlets binding his arms behind him had a separate locking system.

Which meant that as they pried Peter free from the collar, he was free to fall unimpeded to the floor. And from the speed and from the way Peter fell, twisting heavily to one side, his cuffs were almost certainly the higher-level magnetic kind. The ones specifically designed by ancient Kree slavers to prevent their captives from ever escaping.

Or, at least, from escaping with their hands.

The cuffs shot down, dragging Peter painfully backwards towards the floor.

Peter was falling.

Which, Drax knew, would certainly hurt.

And would not make the knife still lodged in Peter’s lung do him any favors.

Or make his already wheezing breaths any easier to take.

Gamora saw the inevitable disaster and shrieked, but her sword was still inches from Peter’s jugular and she needed a few miliseconds with which to jerk it back and throw it away.

In those few seconds, Drax acted for her. With the speed of thought, Drax flung the remnants of the collar aside. Reached out and caught his comrade before the other man’s head hit the stone floor. Drax grunted and went to one knee, bracing Peter’s back, keeping his friend’s head and chest above the dirty stone tiles.

Hugging Peter to him as best he could, Drax swiftly began to check him for any further injuries. Almost absently, he realized he was cradling his friend the way he used to cradle Camaria when she’d had trouble falling asleep. There was a noticeable size difference between his current friend and his long-lost daughter, but Drax was very big and very strong. Also, Peter couldn’t even hold up his head at the moment. So Drax did not feel as if he was _literally_ babying Peter.

He frowned as he also noticed that his friend was burning up. (Not literally. Peter Quill was not literally on fire—Drax had made that mistake once back in the Gamma Quadrant, and Rocket had needed to explain to him—at length and at volume—why dousing Peter with the ship’s fire extinguisher could not, and _never_ would, help lower a delirious Terran’s dangerous fever. It had been, to quote his small and irascible shipmate, a _krutakin **stupid**_ idea.)

But if there’d been a fire extinguisher near to hand here in the Kree ship, Drax would have been more than willing to try that krutaking stupid idea again. Because Peter’s skin was painfully hot to the touch, and the way his head simply lolled back seriously disturbed Drax’s calm. Streaks of sweat had already dried on Peter’s back and down his temples, but his face was flushed and his breathing shallow, the boy’s sandy hair damp and sticking to his skin. Drax seemed to remember that that was a very bad sign. For Terrans.

Although at least the Terran was not _literally_ on fire.

“Hold him still.” Gamorra ordered, and Drax caught the flash of light from her small dagger as she knelt down to slice away the bloody gag still knotted tight between Peter’s teeth.

There was a sudden movement, and Gamora’s wrist was grasped by a cybernetic blue hand that shot out from the dimness welling up around them.

“Wait.” Nebula’s voice ordered. “Let me cauterize his chest wound first.”

Gamorra shot her a blank, yet still fiercely protective look.

Nebula rolled her eyes. “Or he might bleed out. Or bite off his tongue.” she clarified. Gamorra went even _more_ green, and reluctantly moved out of the way. Nebula took her place and huffed out an irritated breath, closing her dark eyes. After a focused, tense moment, her cybernetic fingers glowed a deep, molten red. She spared her sister a quick, almost apologetic glance.

“Your lover will _not_ like this.” she said flatly. “But he will be alive to complain about it.” She glared down at Drax. “Hold him still.” Drax bristled a little at the tone of command in her voice, but did as he was bid.

Nebula had been right.

Peter did not enjoy the experience.

But Nebula did it as quickly and as cleanly as possible. Drax frowned deeply at the strangled, agonized screaming sounds Peter made, but then it was over, and Nebula had all but jumped away, and Gamora was slicing through the gag with her dagger, ripping it out and away as fast her fingers could fly. She all but threw both the weapon and the dirty cloth from her as she finished. Reaching out, she cradled Peter’s face in both her hands.

She stroked the blood away from Peter’s cheekbones more gently than a warrioress was typically thought capable of, and said her lover’s name. Softly. Once, twice. For a painfully stifled moment, Peter did not answer. He was shivering, even though heat emanated from him as if from the Milano’s engine room. Then he shifted a little, shrinking away from her touch, and mumbled something. Drax listened intently, but the words were incomprehensible, even for Quill, and Drax realized with sudden horror that Gamora was looking to him—to him!—for advice.

“He’s delirious, I think.” she said, her voice catching, rare tears glinting at the corners of her eyes. “And so hurt. And really, really scared. I—I don’t know what to do.”

Drax didn’t have a clue either, but fumbled for any piece of advice he’d ever hear Hovat tell Camaria.

“Just…uh, just…uh, be yourself.” he said weakly. Gamora shot him a suddenly annoyed look, but tried anyway. That was one of the things he liked about Gamora. Her willingness to do all she could for those she loved. That, and her ridiculously excellent aim. And her powerful knockout moves. She made a fine comrade in arms. The most dangerous woman in the galaxy cleared her throat, once.

“It’s all right. Peter.” she said, weakly. “It’s all right. We’re all here.”

Peter moaned a little at that. Drax studied him closely. Their friend did not look at all reassured. When Peter spoke, his voice was more of a rasp than anything else.

“That’s the _problem_.” he whimpered, the weak sound cracking, almost lost before it reached Drax’s ears. “You’re all gunna die, and, it’ll be, all my fault.”

“That is not true. We are not going to die.” Drax protested. Peter groaned and moved his head fretfully back and forth, smearing blood and sweat and dirt all over Drax’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yeah you are.”

“No we’re not.”

“ _Yeah_ , you _are_.”

“ _No_ , we’re—“

“Enough!” Gamorra snapped, clearly pushed beyond the end of her own patience. Then she coughed again, forced her voice to sound slightly less harassed and far more gentle, the way it had been before—well, before Drax had tried helping and instead made things worse.

“Peter, we’re _fine_.” She said again. “Yondu helped us get you, and we’re all _fine_.”

Peter’s frown deepened muzzily.

“I promise.” Gamorra added, puzzlement sliding into her voice. Peter stiffened, then visibly forced himself to relax. A little.

“Thas…thas…good, I guess….” he slurred. “Y—Yondu’s helpin you guys…s—stay sssafe, so…soooo thas’ good…I’m—I’m really glad—yer all okay—you are all okay, right?”

“Of course we are in good health, Star-Lord.” Drax put in. He did not often use Peter’s preferred title, but thought it no bad thing to humor his friend’s strange sense of pride this time. “You can see for yourself we are unharmed.”

Peter’s grin was more of a badly controlled grimace. “Yeah, uh, ‘bout that. I can’t—I can’t actually—see.”

Gamora stifled a shriek, and Drax’s frown deepened as he studied Peter’s tightly shut eyes.

“But Hela did not take either of your eyes.” he said finally. “They are still in your head.”

Gamora was making squawking sounds. “But they’re not _open_ , Drax.” She’d moved back in beside him, reached tentatively out and cupped Peter’s face again, gently, in one of her slender hands. Peter clearly flinched, just for a second, then just as clearly fought it down. Gamora cleared her throat a little, letting him adjust. Then she continued her work. Her clearly careful consideration was at strange odds with the slippery Kree blood coating her arms.

“Peter, try blinking for me.”

“Um, sure…”

“Okay, so, you can’t, um, open them, really, at all?…”

Drax felt the tension coiling in his friend’s tired shoulders, and he could almost (literally) see the effort it took for Peter not to scream at her.

“Nope.” his friend whispered instead. Drax frowned. Maybe the damage to Peter’s eyes was was more extensive than he at first thought.

He did not say this. He would not scare them further without proof.

Drax was not an _absolute_ idiot.

Gamora sniffed, fumbling at her side with her free hand. She’d taken to carrying a small pack of what she called “first aid”. She had a little of everything in there, from oil to free up Nebula’s finger joints to burn salve for Rocket’s singed fur when his bombs went off too early to a charger for Peter’s Zune.

Now she drew out a tiny little water bottle. Very reluctantly, she took her hand away from Peter's face, and, sniffing, started eking the water out onto an equally small square of bandage.

“I—I’m not an expert, at, well, _healing_ things, but if we try—try this—“

Drax nodded, wishing he had an extra hand to help her. Or had thought to bring a canteen himself. But he was still keeping Peter from drowning in his own blood on the filthy slave ship floor, so any other help he could offer was minimal at best.

Then an irritated snort from the darkness around them, and the rushing, clicking rustle of small paws speeding towards them over the cold stones.

“—DAST IDIOOOOTS!”

Then there was a sudden, scurrying weight on Drax’s shoulder, and he grunted as he compensated for the unexpected shift in balance.

“—stupid bunch a’krutakers, please tell me yew ain’t tried and take the knife outta him yet, right, guys, good, that’d be even more stupid, now getoutta the way an’ lemme help, move it Gammy, that stupid little hanky of yours ain’t gonna do squat—“

Drax fought back an irritated sneeze as Rocket’s tail whipped by his nose.

“Cease your yammering, rodent!” he snapped, losing his tenuous hold on his hard-won patience. “Can you not see Gamora is trying her best?”

“—yeahan’that’s great, ‘cept we don’t got time to screw around, ya idiots, Pete’s gunna bleed out here if we stay here too much—Quill, why ain’t ya talkin?!—”

“—e can’t open his eyes, Rocket—“

For an instant, Rocket was still, his dark eyes widened in horror. Then there was a quick _slap_ of sound, and Peter choked in sudden surprise.

Then Rocket was ranting again. Another little _slap_. Another choke from Quill.

“—donchu do this ta me Quill, I owe you like, two thousand units, and I always pay my debts—COME ON YA PANSY, wake up an’ don’ be a moron—here, Gammy, lemme try—I brought my water bottle with me this time—“

There was a rapid clicking sound, a _clwip_ , the gurgle of water. Cool liquid splashed up into Drax’s face and he squinched his eyes shut.

In his arms, Peter coughed as the water ran down his face, grimy streaks of blood and mud running down from his eyes.

A mess of tangled (but clean) bandages shot by by Drax’s nose and landed on Peter’s face. A small paw drove into the pile and started rubbing at the clotting mess around Peter’s eyes, while a terse voice spat various epithets from a thousand worlds. Drax noted with paternal fondness that while Rocket's voice was harsh with fear, his shaking paw was being surprisingly careful.

“—wake _up_ , ya soft humie sonofa—“

“—eck—ug—Rockit I _am_ awake, tha’s not the proble—“

“THEN OPEN YER EYES YA PANSY, GAMMY’S CRYIN OVER HERE, YA STUPID SELFISH BASTARD!!”

“Wha?!—“

“OPEN EM UP, NOW!”

“I’m _trying_ , godsdammit!!!”

Drax’s shoulders relaxed as Peter’s familiar blue eyes finally cracked open. Drax grinned as he saw his leader’s fuzzy gaze indignantly light on the bristling mass of striped fur five inches in front of his nose.

The mess of fur sneered and waved an empty water bottle back and forth a few times. “Welcome back, Star Brains.” Rocket snarled. Drax fondly noted how Rocket’s sneering muzzle was pulled back in a desperate attempt to hide the moisture in his eyes, and the quiver in his voice, and the trembling of his paws. Rocket swarmed up Drax’s arm and poked his head in a several inches closer to Quill’s own.

“Howzat?” Rocket asked, his twitching small black nose still unnervingly close to Quill’s bloody one. The tech genius’ dark beady eyes stared deeply down into Peter’s bloodshot blue ones.

Their leader coughed and shifted a little, trying to adjust his balance so he could half-lie, half sit more comfortably. Drax helped him as much as he was able.

“—etter, I guess—thanks, I think—but, but did--did your ugly mug haveta be the first thing I…first thing I saw?…”

Rocket grinned with sudden relief, and blinked hard a few times.

“Harhar, ya big jerk—here, herez what yew wanted ta see, I’m guessin—here, Gammy, switch back with me, I’ll break through those damn slaver cuffs in no freaking time—“

“Thank you, Rocket. He looks much better now—“

“Yeah, whatever.”

“…eheg…Rockit…”

“Yeah whatsa matter, Quill?”

“Mmmff…don’…don’ blow my handz off….pleaz.”

A briefly worried pause, then an indignant huff of exasperation.

“Yer a _moron_ , ya know that, Quill?”

“Don’t argue with him, Rocket.”

“Fine, Gammy.”

“And Rocket?”

“Wha?”

“…please don’t blow his hands off.”

“Ugh, fine, I won’t, but you asked _nicely._ ”

“ _I_ zaid pleaz _too_.” Peter weakly objected, but Gamora gently shook her head at him and, for once, Peter listened to her the first time.

He grunted a little and shifted his weight, trying to get to one knee, to get up. Drax grumbled a warning, shaking his head.

“It is not advisable to move yet, my friend. Wait until Rocket frees your arms from the cuffs. Then we can move you to a licensed medical facility where you can receive proper aid.”

Peter’s tired eyes tracked Drax’s worried look down at the knife embedded in his side, at the dried blood coating one side of his red Ravager jacket.

“Eh. That bad, huh?”

Drax kept his features impassive, his voice stoic. His people looked down on the practice of speaking falsehoods, taught that avoiding the truth only made bad situations worse.

But in this case, Drax could make an exception. “No. It is merely a scratch.”

Peter stopped coughing and his eyes widened. “Holy _crap_ , I’m _dying_.”

The half-Terran swallowed, hard, once, then shot a half-apologetic, half-scared look over at Gamora. “ ‘ammy, am I _dyin?_ If I am, I’m _sorry_ , I’m _so_ dast _sorry_ , I _know_ I promised _not to_ —“

Gamora cleared her throat again and half-smiled at him. She kept flicking Peter’s hair out of his eyes in a brisk, efficient manner that almost _completely_ hid the absolute panic flickering far back in her own. Peter studied her worriedly. Then his eyes widened again.

“Wh—where are Groot and Mantis?” he gasped. Drax opened his mouth to reply, but Gamora’s smooth answer was there before him.

“They’re back on Yondu’s ship.” she explained patiently. Drax added his own piece of information to the conversation.

“They wanted to come, but Yondu refused.” he said cheerfully. “He locked them in the med bay.”

Peter did not look altogether reassured. Gamora clarified. “They’re helping Tullk and Beyren retrieve the right Terran equipment even now.” She tried for another smile. “You seem to be quite a magnet for trouble, Peter Quill.”

Peter nodded, then asked another question before Drax could ask how exactly Peter was both an organic being and a lodestone. (Then again, their friend did seem to consistently attract troublesome bits of metal. So perhaps Quill really was literally a magnet, and not just a metaphorical one.)

“…’ebula, Kraglin?”

Gamora threw a grateful look over at the doors, where two shadowed figures casually stood, watching the hallway for any hidden enemies. One whose hand glowed molten red, and the other easily held a lethally sharp long-bladed knife. With the confidence of a Ravager who knew how to use it.

“They’re here too.” she soothed. “Like I said, everyone’s fine.”

Peter’s eyes flickered, his chest hitched. He was starting to have trouble breathing again. Drax barely caught the next whispered word. Gamora leaned down, nodded her head.

“He’s here too, Peter. He’s coming.”

Briefly—just for a second—Drax wondered why Peter still looked distressed. Then all thoughts vanished out of his mind.

Because Hela—broken bones and shattered azure skin snapping back into place like Nebula’s always did—

—because _Hela’d_ leapt out of the shadows like a striking snake, hissing and slashing, her clawed fingers tearing—

—she’d flung Rocket away like a child’s doll, yanked at Gamora, shoved her aside, and kicked Drax hard in the chest, knocking him back and away from Peter.

She hadn’t killed any of them. Yet.

But that was because they weren’t her target.

From his position on the floor, from where he’d fallen painfully and awkwardly onto his back, staring straight up at the Kree fanatic, Peter blinked.

“Wow.” he said, his eyes wide and genuinely surprised.

“You look like _shit._ ”

Hela shriek-gurgled again, a long, bubbling scream, and struck at him. The curved blade of her knife glinted in the weak blue light as it tore down towards Peter’s throat.

Then there was another sound.

Shorter.

Faster.

And infinitely more familiar.

A quick, meaty-sounding _thwunk_.

More brief shots of sound, their pattern quickly gliding up and down the audible range of hearing. More thunking sounds.

Red trails of light jerking and flowing through the air, surrounding the Kree priestess in scarlet ribbons of light.

Hela staggered back a step, snarled, tried taking another step towards Peter.

Several _dozen_ more impacts and flashes of light filled the next few _seconds_.

They spun the knife far out of her hand, swirled around her so fast that for a brief moment her staring eyes and snarling face were backlit as if by furious scarlet flames. The last burst of sound and light simultaneously blasted Hela backwards and savagely pinned her to the sacrificial harness, _exactly_ where Peter had hung not ten minutes before.

For a brief, silent second, all was still.

Then the dark, hanging figure, with a molten hole glowing where its heart should have been, toppled out of sight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! *enthusiastic BIG HUGS for all of you* Thank you so much for all your lovely notes and well wishes. They really, really helped!!! The last few weeks have still been difficult, but it might be getting better soon. *dramatic sigh* Same old, same old. Certain medicines work, but other medicines....
> 
> *shudders, remembering violently dry heaving in the small hours of the night until I lost my voice, next words come out as a horror-movie rasp*
> 
> ...Eh, not so much. Somedays I feel like a walking sickfic. Or a crawling pathetically on the ground sickfic. *shrugs again, clears throat, whispers with a bleary eyed thumbs up* But I got this chapter ready to go and thought, dangit, let's do this thing!! *big hugs to you all again* Thank you all for reading! You're all awesome!! <3 <3 <3


	10. Peter: Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay guys! *tired smile* I'm (still) alive! Annnnnnd have a surprise for you! See end of chapter for details ;)

Silence filled the ship.

Gamora looked from Peter to Yondu, then back again. She frowned, puzzled.

Something was wrong.

Hela was gone—for good, this time—but something was wrong.

Yondu’d come in through the doors and knelt down across from them—after he’d used Hela as target practice—but he hadn’t said anything to Peter, yet. Not even a “Hey there, boyo.” or somesuch Ravager greeting. And Peter hadn’t even said anything to him. He just stared back at Yondu, his eyes furrowed underneath the bloody gash on his forehead.

Something was wrong.

Peter’s saying something now, though. Not very loudly, but still—

Gamora leaned in to hear.

“—did you really not know? _None_ of you guys? What Ego was doin to the kids you dropped off with him?” Peter asked. All his energy was fixed on Yondu’s face, and, though he was clearly exhausted, both the intensity of his question and of his eyes almost frightened Gamora.

Her own heart fell as she understood the question, and realized its implications. She shared a horrified look with Drax and Rocket. As one, they turned and stared at Yondu as well, drawing a little back from him.

Yondu swallowed hard at the looks on their faces, then flicked one broken-nailed hand briefly out towards them, showing the red crest of the Ravager flame on his dark coat.

“Ah swear by these flames, we didn’t. We—we— _I—should_ have known. But I didn’t.”

Peter frowned thoughtfully at this.

“Peter.” Gamora said slowly, her tone becoming distant and remote. Drax’s voice rumbled ominously. Rocket’s growl sounded more like a sob strangled off halfway. Gamora blinked hard herself. She couldn’t see all of Peter’s expression, but from the little she could see, it was enough. She said his name again. Drax’s rumble deepened, and one of Rocket’s paws halfheartedly groped for one of his blasters. She wondered where her own weapons were.

Then Peter shook his head. “Don’…don’ kill him, yet, guys, I gotta, gotta think ‘bout this.” Peter coughed a little more, then clenched his jaw, forced himself to sit up a little straighter in Drax's renewed hold.

Yondu reached out a hand to help.

Peter _glared_ at him. The look was brief, but blazing. Yondu swallowed, then drew his own hand back.

Peter scowled and turned away from him, and Gamora caught the hunch of Peter’s shoulders as he did so. Just for a second, he looked, if it had been at all possible, even more tired.

“Gemme up.” Peter said, almost harshly, when Drax would have protested. “Gemme on my _knees_ at least, Drax, come _on_. Yeah, yeah, like tha’. Thankz man.” Gamora saw him set his teeth and square his shoulders as he squinted up at the still-connected video call back to the _Eclector_. “Mantis?” he called. A tiny tree head popped into view. “IamGROOOT!” it cried. Peter tried smiling at it. “Heya, Groot, good ta see ya—hey can you go get Mantis? I gotta ask her somethin.”

“Iamgroot!”

As the little tree ran off on his errand, Peter let out a heavy breath, and grimaced as his locked wrists grated across the ground.

“Rockit,” he asked, “yew keep werking on my handz, okay?” Rocket cut off his stare at Yondu, blinked much too fiercely, and threw himself back into his task with an almost frantic zeal.

At her lover’s side, Gamora cleared her throat. “Peter.” she asked quietly. “What can I do?”

Peter glanced at her briefly. An almost dopey look flickered for an instant across his face. “Um, yew….yew can jus’ stay right there.” he said, with what looked like his first true smile of the night. Gamora smiled back at him and gently squeezed his uninjured shoulder.

“I think that truth serum’s still in your system.” she said quietly. She sighed a little, moved his bloody hair back carefully, studied the ugly ragged cut through his ear. “You’re a little less—“

“…witty?…”

“…tactful than usual.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m tactful?” he said, sounding surprised.

Gamora smiled a little and continued searching in her tiny kit for antiseptic. Or at least, for an antiseptic that wouldn’t peel Peter’s skin off his bones. (There’d been that close call on that Kyreian moon four months ago. She wasn’t going to take any chances.) Peter looked as if he might say something more, but a chirpy “IamGroot!” interrupted them. Wearily, he turned back to the screen facing them.

“Thanx, Groot. Hey, Mantis.”

Mantis chirruped a cheerful greeting. Peter tried to smile back at her. “Hey, Mantis. Um…this might be a real sudden question, but…I…I gotta know…did…did Jason, uh, lie to people? About what he did with the ki—with my brothers and sisters? Did he _actually_ fool people?”

Mantis’ eyes grew wide and sad. “Oh. I thought you might ask me that.” she said, her voice small and quiet.

Peter looked too tired to be surprised. “Yeah…well…did he?”

Mantis bit her lip and nodded. “Yes.” she said, quietly but with the certainty of absolute truth in her voice. “Jason could be very friendly and convincing when he wanted to be. I lived with him, and even I was often fooled.”

Peter nodded a little at that, eyebrows drawing together as he studied something none of them could see. Then he looked sideways over at Yondu, and jerked his head tiredly over at the silent Ravager captain.

“Wha’ about _him_.” he said, exhaustion threatening to crack through his voice. “Wha’s _he_ like?”

Mantis cocked her head to the side, puzzled. “Peter?”

Peter jutted out his jaw a little, his fevered eyes bright. “Wha’s _he_ like?” he demanded again, voice harsh with anger. And maybe something else. “Iz he jus’ like Jason? Or _not_.”

Mantis blinked sorrowfully, clearly aware Peter’s pain was not caused by her.

“I thought you knew that already.” She said softly. Peter’s pale face flushed, and his angry eyes grew bright. “ ‘pparently _not_.” he said roughly.

Mantis wet her lips. “It is true. Yondu did not know.” she said steadily. “Once he realized what he had done, he never did it again. When he stole you from Terra, he truly wanted to help you. You were not wrong to trust him.”

Peter did not look as though he believed her. He started to say something, then coughed again, curling up a little over the slowly dripping wound in his chest. Gamora steadied him. Peter caught his breath again, gave her a look. “Go back and help Rocket.” he whispered. She bit her lip, worried. Peter tried grinning at her.

He looked awful.

But intent. Gamora nodded, the motion small and slight, and moved back towards Drax and Rocket so that Peter and Yondu were facing each other again.

There was an interminable silence that lasted for thirteen ticks of Rocket’s paw watch.

“Sooo.” Peter said into it, voice tired and rough from the truth serum still flickering through his veins.

Yondu cleared his throat roughly. “Yeah.”

Peter brought his gaze back from the distant recesses of the ship. Yondu dragged his eyes away from the other Guardians. Their gazes met, slid away from each other. Peter ended up inspecting a floor tile near his knee. Yondu picked at the black-crusted end of his yaka arrow.

“Thanks.” Peter muttered. “For makin sure my, uh, my crew didn’t, ya know, die.”

Yondu didn’t raise his eyes. “No need ta thank me.” he murmured. “Woulda done it anyways.”

Peter finally raised his head at that. And stared, hard, at Yondu, an unfathomable expression in his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *happy smile* Hello my wonderful readers and friends! As a special treat for you all, I worked on TWO chapters for you on this update! *makes excited shooing motions* What are you waiting for?! Hit Next Chapter already!! <3 <3


	11. Peter: Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost over now.

Peter’s eyes were a particular shade of blue.

All of them kids had had it, in varying degrees.

Musta been a Celestial thing.

Not quite dark and not quite light.

Not that they’d all looked the same. Not at all. Peter’s eyes, for instance. They were all his own. Clear and quick and clever. He was his own person, his own self, an irreplaceable soul. A strong life, full of daring deeds and further promise.

And Yondu had sent dozens of such lives to Jason.

Where they’d been, quite literally, snuffed out.

For just an instant, Yondu saw echoes of the other children he’d handed over to Ego in Peter’s eyes, and he felt physically sick.

He’d never _not_ feel that.

But he had hoped he’d done something right in keeping Peter away from that psychotic murdering bastard.

He’d tried. He knew it would never make things right, but he’d tried to do at least something right by Peter, at least.

But it looked like he’d failed the boy. Again.

Part of him wished he could blame Hela for it. Lay the blame for the broken look in his son’s eyes on her shoulders. (Well, what remained of her shoulders, anyway.)

But he couldn’t. He’d done the deed. Hela had just laughed about it. She’d used the truth to hurt Peter, to wound him in ways knives and truth toxins never could. And she’d done it well.

Yondu couldn’t change the past.

Or know what the future held.

All he could do was act in the present. And the present was now. So he should try and say something else to his son. Something poignant, and meaningful, and not hackneyed and stupid.

But Yondu _was_ stupid. Had been, for a long, long time, ever since he’d taken Jason’s dirty units and traded them in for little lives.

So he said the only thing he could think of. Which, for a rarity, was the absolute truth.

“ ‘m…sorry, son. Ah didn’t know. But ah’m sorry. I won’t ever be rid a’ what I done.”

Peter studied him narrowly. Thought for a few more seconds. Then he nodded. Once.

Then, as though a major decision had finally been reached, Peter sort of just slumped forward, leaning into Yondu’s chest. His forehead thunked dully on the Ravager flame symbol emblazoned over Yondu’s heart. The motion was tiny, but significant.

His son sniffled a little, shoulders shifting. When he spoke, he sounded younger, somehow. 

“…hurts, Dad.” Peter mumbled, his words muffled by the worn red leather. “Hurts, hurts, hurts a _lot_.”

The halting admission, together with the utter exhaustion in Peter’s voice, made Yondu’s own throat close up.

“I know.” he said, choking out the words. He wrapped his arms around his son, holding him awkwardly against his chest, steadying him as best he could. “I know.”

“H-hurtz. Everywhere. An’ I can’t—can’t feel my arms, Dad.”

“Yeah.” Yondu turned his head a little, glared without any real heat at Rocket. The green-skinned girl had moved back to give the little genius room to maneuver the delicate, terrible little locks on the thick cuffs. “Howz it comin." Yondu asked.

Rocket snarled at the lockpicks in his paws, furious with himself and unable to vent his frustration through wanton acts of destruction. “I’m _tryin_.” he hissed. Yondu’s eyes flashed scarlet with impatience, but he saw the way Rocket’s claws were shaking, and forced himself to hold back his angry retort. He grunted instead, and went back to reassuring his son.

“It’ll be over soon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yew’ll see.”

“Yep.”

“She’s gone, ya know.”

“Pfft, ya _think_?” Peter laughed a little. The sound was weak and tired, but it was a real laugh. Yondu felt his heart thaw a little. His son would be okay. He wasn’t great, and probably wouldn’t be for awhile, but he’d be okay. He could still laugh. Yondu would _never_ admit to being an _absolutely_ biased parent, but he knew his kid could talk the ears off a thousand year old sphinx, and there were days he felt like airlocking himself rather than listen to one more earscraping minute of Peter’s chatter.

But right now, he wouldn’t have stopped Peter talking for every Infinity Stone in the galaxy.

“….wa’z pretty awesome, Dad.” Peter was sayin, his words running together, the way they had when he’d been younger and tired easily. Yondu chanced a quick look down at him. His son was grinning sleepily, eyes mostly closed.

“Heheh. You filled her full of holes.”

Yondu’s smile showed most of his teeth. “Yeah.”

Peter giggled a little. “Psssht, target practice. Heheheh.”

Yondu snorted a little himself. “Yeah.”

“Prob’ly not a good example for Groot, though.” Peter said, momentarily conscience-stricken.

“I am _Groot_!” the little twig huffed indignantly. Peter opened one eye a little wider and stared up at the screen. “That was your idea?” he said blankly. “Ho—ly _shit_.”

Groot snickered. “I am Groot.” he chided. Peter rolled his eyes. “Swearing is not as bad as coming up with brutal kills.” he said weakly.

Groot wagged a tiny twig finger at him. “I _am_ Groot.” he said with dignity. Peter huffed and thunked his head back onto Yondu’s chest.

“ —give up.” he said resignedly. “—can’t argue with somethin that cute.” His expression suddenly twisted and broke mid-laugh, and Yondu’s heart stuttered with it.

“—can’t…can’t feel my arms right.” Peter whispered again, his voice thin and suddenly very weak. “Or breathe real…real good…an'...an' my eyes just...just...everythin...it hurts, it hurts, it  _hurts_.” Yondu felt Peter’s head slide sideways a little too quickly on his chest, as if his son’s head had suddenly gotten too heavy for his shoulders. Fear swiftly tipped the Ravager captain’s world to the side as the all-too familiar scent of blood welled up around him. He chanced a look at the knife in Peter’s side. The blood starting to well up around it again looked black in the dull blue light of the ship.

Yondu swallowed hard, rapidly adjusted his hold on Peter so that he could look his son in the eyes. Or at least he could have done, if Pete’s head hadn’t just sagged, and his eyes hadn’t just slid closed. Yondu cleared his throat roughly. One big scarred hand carefully tilted his son’s bloody chin back up.

He had to keep the kid awake. Keep him talking.

It shouldn’t be that hard.

It wouldn’t be. It _wouldn’t_.

“Pete,” he said warningly, his red eyes glinting. “Yew gotta focus, now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yew gotta stay wit’ me.”

“Yup…”

“Whas’ that?”

“Y—yup—imeanyes—“

“Yes what?”

“Yes…...cap’n..…”

Yondu felt a completely irrational surge of disappointment at _that_ title, but fought it down.

“Thas’ my boy. Thas’ my boy. Yer doin—yer’ doin real good, Peter, yer doin good. Now, yew just hold—“

“…..………….........dad…”

“What? What, what’re you—no. No, no, nonono, _no_. Yew wake up right the hell now, boyo, yew hear me? Peter? PETER!  _PETER!_   _You wake right the hell up right now!”_

Peter whimpered a little and shifted his shoulders, instinctively trying to escape Yondu’s steadily increasing, panicked hold. Sick with fear, Yondu forced himself to loosen his grip—and never knew until the end of time if he’d hugged Peter back to him or if Peter had slumped back against his heart.

Either way, when Peter spoke his last words, Yondu was perfectly able to hear them.

“…. _hurtz_ , dad…” Peter breathed again.

Then he stopped talking.

Yondu felt his eyes burn red. He would have given _everything_ in the _galaxy_ — _ **every** krutaking Infinity Stone in **every** krutaking dimension from **every** krutaking **corner** of **time**_ —if it meant his son would stop _hurting_. And stop _sounding_ like that.

“It’ll be fine, son.” he found himself saying, and hoped beyond hope that for once in his miserable, rotten life, he was speaking the truth. “Ah promise, I promise, I _promise_ it’ll be fine. Yew’ll be fine.”

But Peter said nothing back. Just buried his burning face a little deeper into his father’s shoulder with a last, awful little whimper. Yondu swallowed hard. The boy’s closed eyelids were wet against his skin, and a few tiny drops of lukewarm moisture welled up against Yondu’s neck.

The smell of blood grew stronger.

Yondu clutched his son to his chest with one hand and clasped the back of Peter’s bloody head with the other. His blue palm came away sticky and red. Yondu looked at it for a second, horrified, then remembered the torn ear.

Yondu tightened his grip around his son’s still shoulders.

_“Rocket_.” he said warningly. Rocket swore furiously, light glinting suspiciously at the corners of his eyes. “I’m—“ he began, then cut off. There was a click, and a sudden breaking sound, and the the thick cuffs fell heavily to the dirty metal floor.

“Got it.” Rocket snarled, and the dark satisfaction in his voice would have been almost scary if he hadn’t been glaring at the cuffs.

“See?” Yondu said into the sudden silence. “We’re gettin yew outta here. Yew’ll be fine.”

Nothing.

Not a sound.

Peter’s weight was heavy and sagging against him. Yondu realized that his son’s shoulders hadn’t shifted for—for what seemed like an eternity now.

Peter wasn’t breathing anymore.

Yondu felt the blood drain out of his face.

The world became distant, unreal. After what seemed like an eternity, he realized he’d hefted his son as though he was still Mantis’ height, was clutching him so hard that his knuckles were white, and was shouting for his crew to beam them aboard now, now, now, now now now **_now_** , were the Xandarian medical cruisers _actually_ en route this time, if they _weren’t_ he was gunna _burn_ Xandar to the _ground_ and then get medical attention fer Peter—no, wait, he was gunna get Peter the right medical attention and _then_ burn Xandar to the ground—

—but then people were taking Peter away from him—

—and he was left standing there in a white hospital hallway with blood that wasn’t his, but might as well have been, on his coat—

—and he was turning around—

—and he saw his other pale, dirty, bloody kids staring past him at where Peter’d disappeared to—

—and he realized his job wasn’t over. Not yet.

They needed him too.

And Yondu Udonta was _never_ going to let his family—Pete’s family—down. Not _ever_ again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves happily* Hiiii readers! Thank you SO MUCH for all your lovely support and kind words. First, this is the penultimate chapter of this particular story. I'll post the epilogue soon..ish. *blushes a little* I sincerely hope it won't take as long as this last update. *abashed half-grin* So, if you want to, stay posted for that last bit! <3 <3 
> 
> (The rest of this update has nothing to do with the story and is a little heavy, so you've been forewarned <3 )  
> Soooo, my lovely friends and fellow readers. Remember how you all were sending me such beautiful good vibes and prayers and thoughts and hugs and internet cookies regarding my health? First off, I WANT TO THANK YOU ALL. I LOVE YOU GUYS. YOU ARE ALL THE BEST. You guys quite literally helped me in ways I can't really even begin to describe. *hugs each and every one of you, very hard and from the heart* 
> 
> *pulls back a little from the hug, scratches tiredly at back of neck* Seeeeecondly, the most recent update regarding my health (and why I was out from here for so long) is: 
> 
> A) As it turns out, I have an absolutely _awful_ case of PTSD.  
> B) Without going into too much graphic detail, said PTSD is from being violently, maliciously assaulted (and very nearly killed) years ago, when I was very, very young.  
> C) My best friend was also assaulted along with me, and also almost killed. Despite my best efforts, I quite literally could do _absolutely nothing_ to help them.  
> D) Best part is--(wait for it)--my parents refuse to believe me about this unless I can somehow prove the assault happened.  
> E) How I can actually prove that a secret, traumatic, long past brutal attack _happened_ (beyond already giving my own evidence) is anyone's guess. The attacker was clever, malicious, and very, very careful. *winces* Yeah. So. 'Z pretty bad.
> 
> (And, frankly, having my parents disbelieve me and refuse to support me hurts worse than the actual attack. Which in itself hurt worse than anything I'd ever dreamed was possible. (*wry quote from own writing* Oh wow, my heart hurts both literally AND metaphorically, worse than I ever thought was possible, wooooow. And _ow_.) 
> 
> (God, I wish Yondu was real. I could really use an awesome dad alert right now. Or a goofy Ravager crew.)
> 
> F) *shakes self back to reality* Ehm, so, I'm still working with doctors and such, but frankly it'll be a long, LONG, hard road until I"m better. And, I'm not gonna lie, right now, things are pretty painful and dark and awful. 
> 
> G) BUT, as I was reminded of earlier today, I DO have my friends! Which includes you guys! And writing! And crazy fun characters like the Guardians who fight people like Ronan and Ego--which gives me hope when my own personal demons seem too large and formidable to fight. Not that challenging every sort of evil to a metaphorical dance off works every time, but if there's one thing I _KNOW_ I'm good at, it's being too stubborn to kill. Like, literally. So it does make me feel a certain sort of kinship for the oddball heroes that are the Guardians of the Galaxy. 
> 
> *exhausted wave and half-salute* So if you all want to keep sending hugs, love, vibes, prayers, Ravager fireworks, and cookies my way, I will continue to be everlastingly grateful. 
> 
> Super-short version: You all are wonderful, the last month has been Hell for me, but I'm so very glad I found this site. You guys are the best. I love you lots. <3 <3 <3


	12. Peter: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Goodness.
> 
> You are all amazing people and I love you. Really, I do mean that. You guys help me through some pretty dark times, and my one wish is to give you all a big hug. <3 
> 
> Enjoy this fluffy epilogue!

“Ya know,” Rocket said meditatively, popping a grape into his mouth, “We should jest reserve a room here. Get this Xandarian hospital to get a plaque or somethin’ and put it on the door that says “Peter Quill, the dast loser who gits his whimpy humie hide handed to him once or twice a day.”

Drax frowned, counting on his fingers. “That would be a very large plaque.” he said seriously. “I do not think it would fit on the door.”

Rocket sneered and ate another grape from Denarrian Day’s “Get Well Soon” fruit basket. The fact that they were technically Peter’s grapes did not deter him in the slightest.

“Hey! Any plaque on my door should say _Star-Lord!_ ” their friend hollered from where he sat upright in his hospital bed. Then Peter turned his attention back to the swing-out table, where he and Gamora were playing some sort of Earth game involving thin pieces of cardboard with alternating patterns and numbers etched on their sides. He looked at the pieces in his hand and sighed.

“Aw, nuts.” he said regretfully. “I lose.”

Gamora raised a delicate eyebrow. “Again?”

Peter shrugged one bandaged shoulder. Then winced. “Uh, yeah. Bummer.” he said, and even Drax could tell he was lying.

Gamora smirked as he leaned forward and gave her a swift but affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“I think your forfeit is a strange one. Star-Lord.”

Peter grinned all over his face. He reached out a hand, swiftly gathered the cards up, and expertly shuffled them.

“Maybe I’ll have better luck this time.” he said mischievously.

“Ah doubt it.” a voice drawled from the doorway. Yondu leaned against the gleaming doorframe, his old smirk back in his eyes. “Ah taught him how ta rig a deck afore he ever flew a shuttle. Yer losin on purpose, boyo.”

Peter scoffed. Badly. Gamora pretended not to hear. Without looking, Rocket held out a expectant paw. Drax sighed, dug in his pocket, then dropped five units into Rocket’s wagging claws.

“I did not know there was a way to cheat at a cardboard game.” he muttered.

Rocket spared him a glittering grin. “Oh, my friend, the things you do not yet know.” the rodent all but purred. Drax suddenly decided he _would_ learn the ways of deceit. If only so that one day he could best Rocket in this match of intellect.

A rattling noise from overhead. A puff of dust. Two grimy figures clambered out of the air vent above the door. Yondu helped them climb down.

“Oh!” the small one cried joyfully. “This hospital has so very many air vents!”

“Iamgroot!” rejoiced the smaller one.

“And we have only explored half of them!” Mantis said, excitement lighting her voice.

Peter grimaced a little. “You can’t just go spyin around a hospital, guys. That’s…that’s gotta be wrong on so many levels.”

“Oh, we have not spied on anyone _ill_.” Mantis said, sounding horrified at the very thought.

Peter and Gamora exchanged relieved glances and simultaneous sighs.

“We spy on the military base attached to the hospital.” Mantis added brightly.

Gamora squawked as Drax and Rocket laughed. Peter sat up a little straighter in bed. “That-that is super dangerous!” he gasped.

“Oh, no.” Mantis reassured him. “Not when we bring Nebula and Kraglin.”

From across the room, Drax studied his friend worriedly. “Friend Quill, why would you hit your face with your open palm like that? Does it not hurt?”

“Not as much as hearing this does.” Peter drawled. Gamora tutted and gently drew his hand away from his face. “Don’t knock that bandage off again.” she said, turning his head gently to the side to check on the thick bandage covering Peter’s ear. Peter smiled goofily, reached up and covered her hand with his own, purposely rubbing his cheek into her palm. He was clearly enjoying himself.

Gamora shook her head a little. But she was smiling too.

Then Peter’s eyes widened and he sat bolt upright, as if he had remembered something of absolutely vital importance

“GUYS!” he all but hollered, waving his hands wildly for attention. He had it.

Everyone in the room had turned to look expectantly at him.

“Wha’ is it?” Rocket demanded. “Whas’ got yer ears on fire?”

Drax frowned again. “Quill’s ears are not on—oh. I see what it is. It is a joke. Or a metaphor. But for what I do not know.”

Peter waved that aside impatiently.

“Guys.” he said seriously. “I just thought of this. Listen up. This is a _really_ **important** question.” He cleared his throat. “How come we always take our enemies by surprise? Really, think about it, where _do_ the Guardians come from?”

Gamora tapped her chin thoughtfully with one finger. Yondu frowned in puzzlement. Mantis and Groot exchanged blank looks. Drax and Rocket shrugged at each other.

Peter leaned forward. “We come— _we come from out of Knowhere!”_

He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. He laughed so hard he collapsed back against his bed, and his oxygen monitors shrilled, and the nurse on duty rushed in wild-eyed and was only with difficulty ushered out again.

Peter’s unadulterated mirth was infectious.

Even if it took a few more seconds for the joke to sink in.

“Oh, _Peter,_ ” Gamora groaned, holding her side between sobs of laughter. “Don’t, don’t, don’t _laugh_ so _hard_ , you’ll pop your stitches—oh, no, no, no, no, _don’t_ —“

Yondu had to slide down the doorframe so he wouldn’t fall over. Rocket had sprawled across Drax’s shoulders like a hyperventilating scarf, and Drax was roaring so loudly the neat rows of medicine vials in the cabinets shook and rang like chiming bells. Mantis was curled up on the ground, rocking back and forth on her heels as Groot hung on to her ankle, wheezing when he could suck in a much-needed breath.

A blank “What the krutak?” and a flat “What on Xandar?” from the doorway made them look up. Kraglin and Nebula—looking suspiciously dusty—looked round the room at the hysterical Guardians and Ravager captain. Then they looked back at each other.

Nebula cocked her head to one side, looking slightly worried. “Who is dying?” she inquired.

Kraglin started to grin himself, then caught it in time to answer her question. “They’re not dyin, darlin, they’re laughin.”

“About what?” Nebula wanted to know.

It took awhile.

But they told them.

Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys. *Ravager salute, fist over heart* Until next time, my fellow readers and writers! Love you all lots and lots!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Thank you all so much for your feedback on my other fics. I love reading them! This one is a work in progress, so please bear with me if I don't update as fast as I did on the other ones. ;) Let me know what you think! Have a great day!


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